


You Were But A Ghost In My Arms

by Dagger_Lies



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Genre: Cyrodiil, F/M, Mages Guild, Mental Health Issues, Morrowind, Sexual Assault, Tamriel, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2019-08-09 22:28:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 40,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16458221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dagger_Lies/pseuds/Dagger_Lies
Summary: A pair of assassins find both solace and discord in each other. Drawn together by the darkness in their hearts, clashing repeatedly from the torment of their pasts and being slowly drawn apart by artifice. This memoir details how they first met and the events thereafter.





	1. As Embers Dress The Sky

1st day of Second Seed, 3E 432 (15 months prior to the Oblivion Crisis)  
Dark clouds rolled ominously over Leyawiin at dusk, a contrast to the sunshine of the day wherein he had observed his target on the shores of Topal Bay. It was the season of The Shadow, an ironic fact not overlooked by the hooded figure gazing up at the 2nd storey window of the Three Sisters’ Inn. Lucien Lachance, Speaker for the Cheydinhal branch of the Dark Brotherhood, did not know what reception he would receive from the woman he had been sent to recruit. He had been sent word from Ungolim, the Bosmeri Listener, of the Night Mother’s latest hopeful draftee. While this was nothing unusual, the description Ungolim provided suffused him with bittersweet nostalgia.  


_Distinctive Altmer. Female. 5’3”-5’5”. ~20-30 years of age by human standards. Pale skin. Silver hair. Amber eyes. Appears unarmed. Possible mage? Last noted as staying at the Three Sisters’ Inn in Leyawiin._  


The description hurled his memory back to the previous year…  


18th day of Sun’s Dusk, 3E 431  
It had been an unusually cold autumn, with a dusting of snow coating the high roofs of Cheydinhal. Not that Lucien was surprised, it was just his luck. He had finally managed to take a week off from his duties and plan a vacation of sorts. In his plans, he had envisioned a picturesque hike through the Valus Mountains; a medley of russet tones assaulting his oculi and crunching underfoot. Well, there may still be crunching underfoot he hoped, anything would be preferable to squelching through snowmelt. Morrowind was where Lucian was headed, a destination of sharp tongues and ears; strange creatures and cuisine. Generally, it was not safe for Brotherhood members to venture to Morrowind on account of their rivalry with the Morag Tong. But, what type of holiday would it be without a dash of danger? He had only visited once before, nearly a decade ago, to visit a guild associate. His last visit had not been overly pleasant. The Tribunal had been in turbulence, the Morag Tong actively hunted Brotherhood members and he’d found out he was allergic to scrib jelly. Surely this trip couldn’t be any worse.  
  
  
After ensuring everything was neatly arranged with Ocheeva and Vicente in the Cheydinhal sanctuary, Lucian slung his saddlebags over Shadowmere and they set off towards the border in the east. The trip was uneventful, it seemed as if the sudden drop in temperature had forced any would-be highwaymen into finding shelter. Along the way, Lucien gathered fungi and herbs. There was something relaxing about a man and his horse, out on holiday, gathering alchemical reagents. Not that assassinating in the name of Sithis and the Night Mother didn’t make for a rewarding profession, but the increasing guild politics grated on his nerves. The trip was arduous, and he often dismounted and led Shadowmere, but the gruelling exercise was a welcome respite for his turbulent mind. For the first night, they camped amongst the roots of a large tree, which provided a modicum of respite from the biting winds.  


 

19th day of Sun’s Dusk, 3E 431  
On the second afternoon, the duo saw the large border gate dividing Cyrodiil and Morrowind in the distance. Lucian had changed from his usual, shady black robes into plain, dark leathers more suited to a wandering sellsword. At the gates, the House Hlaalu guard stood to attention, a question evident in the raising of his eyebrows, “Are you here for business or pleasure, outlander?”  
“Why not both?” Lucian replied, one corner of his mouth quirking upwards. This seemed to appease the guard, who stepped aside to let him pass once the visitor forms were filled out and the tourism levy was paid. 35 gold seemed a little steep, given the drab landscape that presented itself to him once he’d crossed the border, but it was supposedly for a worthy cause. Small print at the bottom of the visitor form claimed that the levy went towards conservation efforts, notably that of the wild silt strider and their habitats. Despite his detached attitude towards the sentient races of Tamriel, Lucien had a soft-spot for animals, which was evident in his affection for Shadowmere. Slinging himself up into the saddle, Lucian guided Shadowmere down the craggy mountainside. At times, he was forced to pull his cloak up to his mouth to filter out the ash that swirled in a lazy, intermittent fashion. They made a leisurely pace along roads flowing towards the south-east, following merchants and farmers as the landscape flattened. Day soon turned to dusk and they found themselves at the walls of Iliath Temple, an estate that once was a shrine to Azura. Lucien knew Dunmer were often wary of strangers, but he found that the Ashlanders took this to another level entirely. He’d had to rely heavily on his silver tongue to gain entry to the estate and once inside, he could not, for all he was worth, find any lodgings. Well, for himself at least. Shadowmere was welcomed and fawned upon at the stables. He should have expected that a race renowned for Daedra worship would fawn over the mare. Sighing to himself, he joined her in the stall, content with the fresh hay and shelter.  


 

20th day of Sun’s Dusk, 3E 431  
The ringing of steel on steel jolted Lucien awake, pieces of straw still clinging to his long, dark, unbound hair. Ignoring the ache in his side from where he’d slept with his weapon belt still attached and bothering only to shrug on his leather jerkin, he stumbled out of the stable and into the raw light of morning. Two warriors in circled each other in the open plaza; one an Ordinator, garbed in elaborate golden armour; the other, an unknown, attired entirely in chitin. A small crowd gathered around the duellers, yelling encouragement into the atmosphere already infused with the scent of ozone, sweat and freshly baked bread. Hand hovering over the shortsword on his left-hip, Lucien scanned the area for any signs of unrest or danger. His eyes alighted on the young stable hand who’d curried Shadowmere the previous evening. The youth was leaning casually against his pitchfork watching the duel, when Lucien roughly grabbed his elbow, “Quick lad, tell me, is trouble brewing or are duels always this common in the morning here?”  
“Huh?” came the response, as the stable hand turned his head towards Lucien, “I thought the Warrior’s Festival was common all over Tamriel?” When Lucien made no move to release his elbow, he turned his head back towards the crowd and continued with excitement in his voice, “It happens on the 20th day of Sun’s Dusk every year! Many of the larger towns get travellers come from far and wide to buy weapons that are sold a fraction of their usual price.”  
Lucien released the youth and relaxed, “Ahh, of course, my apologies. It seems the passage of time eluded me momentarily.” Noting how the young labourer gazed admiringly at the warriors, Lucien decided to be generous, “Say, how would you like to make a few extra gold, lad? Perhaps buy yourself a discounted weapon today?” Faster than the blink of an eye, the youth’s head snapped back towards Lucien. Grinning, Lucien continued, “Feed and saddle my mare, and show me the way to the closest city, and you’ll earn an easy 15 gold. How’s that sound?”  
“Yes, sir” the youth hastily bowed and ran into the stable to begin the preparations.  
  
  
Less than half an hour later, Lucien and Shadowmere were on the road south to Kragenmoor. Nudging Shadowmere into a canter, they flew through the agrarian landscape, only occasionally having to dodge nix-hounds and guar. The closer they got, the busier the roads became. Before Messer was even at its zenith, the spires of Kragenmoor were visible in the distance. Hlaalu guards with their yellow sashes and prominent scale emblems, were identifiable to Lucien because of their strong ties to the Empire. They guarded the walls and gates, however, guards with grey sashes and emblems Lucien did not recognise, also patrolled. There was a large stable outside the walls where Shadowmere took quite a liking to the apples on offer, and Lucien took a liking to the standards of care. Blending in with the crowd, he easily passed into the city, not that the guards seemed to mind who entered. Blacksmiths and vendors lined the streets, surrounded by arrays of weapons, and interested buyers. Lucien mingled amongst the stalls, finding the weapons well-made and well-priced. A new bow, quiver, enchanted longsword and a brace of ebony daggers soon found their way onto his person. Feeling sapped from haggling, sticky from the oppressive heat of too many bodies and too many volcanoes, Lucien made his way towards the large inn on the eastern side of town. An enigmatic sign hung above the door identified the inn as The Hissing Guar. Lucien briefly prayed under his breath, “Please, Dread Father. Please let there be a bed. Let me return to your employ well-rested.” Although he’d only slept rough for 3 nights, he hadn’t envisioned the entirety of his vacation sharing that fate. He moved to push open the door to the inn but was forced to leap backwards to avoid a Nord flying over the threshold; a Nord resplendent with vomit flying from his mouth towards the stunned Imperial. With a grimace, he made to step over the man who was now prostrate and imploring for Talos’ help. But no sooner had he lifted his foot and shifted his weight did he see what had caused the Nord to come flying at him in the first place. A pair of scorching red eyes halted him in his tracks. The volcanic eyes belonged to a scowling Dunmeri woman wielding an impressive broom, no doubt the proprietor. “If you dare to set foot in here, may what you’ve just witnessed serve as a warning. If you even think to cause trouble in my inn, no prayers to any Aedra or Daedra will spare you my wrath, Imperial! Understood?”  
Allowing his foot to continue its forward momentum, Lucien turned his most beguiling smile upon the woman, “Fear not. I come seeking refreshment and respite only. Your fellow townsfolk drive a hard bargain out in the market, and I only wish to avail myself of your hospitality, not to cause any hostility.” He followed the stern woman to bar, unaware of a keen set of amber eyes following the course of his smooth gait.  
“What’s your poison?” asked the innkeeper, as she began furiously wiping tankards. At least the cleaning cloth looked fresh.  
Settling himself on a stool, Lucien continued flashing his beguiling smile, “A bed, a simple meal and perhaps a tub of water to bathe in? My purse isn’t empty yet, don’t worry.”  
Slamming a freshly wiped tankard down, the innkeeper cast a fresh glare at him, “No rooms for outlanders,” her face softened slightly before adding, “however, we do have saltrice topped with grab meat, guar egg on bread or ash yams with scrib jelly on the menu today, take your pick.”  
Lucien’s throat constricted at the mere mention of scrib jelly and he supressed a groan. “Please, good lady, I’ve been travelling for days in your fair land without a proper bed; a simple tourist on holiday. I mean no harm to you or your business and I certainly have no inclination to behave as the Nord you evicted just before,” holding up his coin purse, he continued, “and I’ll pay you twice, no, triple, your usual rate!”  
The chiming on coins appeared to have no effect, “I said, no outlanders. You think you can come here, in your fancy clothes, with your fancy words, a purse full of freshly minted coins in your first and before I know it, you’ll have some poor Dunmeri girl up in your bed, belly full of your seed, and Azura knows what else, and nothing to show for it before you kick her to the curb!” The venom in her voice nearly had Lucien toppling backwards off his stool.  
“Please, I meant no disrespe—” his continued attempt at persuasion was cut short by a warm presence at his elbow. He began to swivel around and pull his arm away but ceased when he felt a sharp fingernail begin to dig between his ribs.  
“Forgive my s’wit of a husband, madam. This is his first time in Morrowind and he’s completely forgotten his manners. I think the all the beatings he’s received in duels today have dulled his wits more than usual,” said the elf at his side, pausing to coo at him affectionately, “Please, would you be so kind as to accommodate us for the night? You can even send up extra pillows and I’ll smother him if he does so much as snores.”  
The innkeeper snorted at the beaming Altmer’s proclamations, “Your husband, is he? Thought you Altmer ones were strict about who you take to your beds?”  
“How could I resist those dark, dashing looks?” the elf giggled, “I didn’t see him walk in, I was just so shocked about what that large, blonde barbarian was saying. My sweetheart was out in the market, hopefully getting me a present. You see, we’re here for our 5th wedding anniversary!” she beamed, holding up her left hand, displaying a sizeable diamond carat on a silver band, “I told him he simply had to see Mournhold when the trees are changing! We even have a gondola trip on the River Odai booked for next week! It’s so romantic. He proposed to me in Alinor during a crui—”  
The innkeeper held up her hands in surrender, and Lucien had to admit, he was pleased, the fervour with which the Altmer was discussing their ‘marriage’ had him unnerved.  
“Okay, okay. Fine! Spare me the details of your marital bed, I beg. The room is 40 gold and you can have a tub for bathing, but you’ll have to heat your own water.”  
The elf threw her arms around Lucien and pressed a kiss to his cheek, which, oddly enough, seemed to be as high as she could reach even though he was sitting. Then, through some unknown agreement, they smoothly and simultaneously produced 20 gold each and set the piles on the counter.  
“The room is up the stairs and at the end of the corridor. I’ll have my boy bring up a tub. Any grief and you’re both out. Now please, leave me in peace.”  
Grabbing the key off the innkeeper and Lucien with her other hand, the unusually small elf began dragging him up the stairs. She bounced ahead of him, her small hand feeling like ice in his own. It provided him with his first opportunity to study his saviour. Silver hair cascaded down her spine in waves, interrupted only by a small braid on the right-hand side. The hand holding his was delicate, with pale skin that only displayed a slight golden hue. With each step, fresh notes of bergamot and lavender assaulted him, causing a worrying tingle to wash over his body. He couldn’t restrain his eyes the higher they climbed up the staircase; her hair ended mid-waist, but his eyes kept roving lower. Lucien tried to brush off his mounting interest. Yes, it had been a while since he’d been with a woman, but he had to keep his wits about him; he knew nothing about her. On the other hand, it wasn’t every day a woman led him up the stairs to their fictional marriage bed.  
  
  
As soon as Lucien had entered the room and shut the door behind him, he found himself pressed up against it as the elf in front of him spun suddenly around. _Amber, her eyes are beautiful, soft rounds of amber_ , was his first thought. Closely followed by, _not soft amber, hard fossilised sap_ , as the prior visage of a happy, spoilt wife melted from her face as she glowered up at him. “Firstly, some house rules: You can have the bed if I get a pillow and the first bath. No funny business or I’ll carve a hilarious grin into your cheeks, and it would be a such shame to mar such features. All I want is a good night’s rest before I leave this forsaken expanse and I imagine, from your failed attempts downstairs, you’re quite weary yourself. Secondly, do be a dear and let the servant with the tub in while I’m gone, I won’t be long.”  
  
  
And with that, Lucien was left staring dumbfounded as she spun back around and swiftly sidled out of the only window before he could even ask her name.


	2. Sunken In Sparks, I Am Aflame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An intellectual conversation on the merits of guar cheese and using tubs made from bugs.

Ambient noises seeped slowly into Lucien’s consciousness from the outside world. He felt a chaotic mix of emotions and physical sensations crawling through his mind, body, and soul. The hair on his nape stood up in both apprehension and anticipation, not dissimilar to the moments before a kill. Adrenaline had been released through his body as soon as she’d begun to guide him up the stairs. Many questions whirled in his mind, which could be simply (also complicatedly) summarised as Lucien being undecided as to whether he should stay or go. Or if the situation was safe or dangerous. Or perhaps there was no simple summary of emotions. He was of two minds. Two very opposing, argumentative, and conflicting (plus other-endless-synonyms) minds.

Lucien cursed under his breath as the endless cycle of internal conflict continued. He would’ve remained glued in place were it not for the knocking at the door. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he turned to pull the door open. A teenager Dunmeri worker stood patiently holding what appeared to be a large carapace. He had dark red hair with small beads woven through it and eyes that appeared to be inherited from whom Lucien presumed to be his mother. Except, unlike the proprietor, the youth’s eyes were steady pools of molten steel, not angry lava. Lucien moved backwards to permit the youth entrance. “Don’t look so shocked, outlander,” said the youth, noting Lucien’s puzzled expression, “a hollowed out Shellbug makes for a much lighter, more transportable bathtub than those of steel or wood that you Imperials prefer.” He undid a pouch tied to his belt and removed four small blocks, each with a slight depression on one edge, “Place your shellbath on these feet and you’ll soon have a sturdy pool of relaxation.”  
Lucien simply nodded, more in the mood for contemplation than conversation.  
Casting his eyes around the room, the youth continued, “And, just because I happened to glimpse a nymph leading you here, you needn’t worry about breaking the shell, Shellbugs are mighty strong so you can both relax in it. I’m sure you’ll find a way to squeeze in there together,” he ended with a wide grin.  
Lucien’s eyebrows nearly reached his hairline, “Excuse y—…”  
“I’ll be back shortly with the water and some rocks to heat it with.” He turned and departed, leaving Lucien no less conflicted than before. Curse Morrowind, he should’ve gone to Hammerfell. Right bloody now he could’ve been reclined in the sand, no bugs, no ash and definitely no silver-haired Altmer in sight. 

The youth soon returned balancing far too many buckets of water and then soon departed, leaving Lucien alone once more. Despite the fact that the tub was made from a disembowelled bug, it looked quite inviting. Unfortunately, he was promised a new smile if he broke the ‘house rules’, which included being forced to bathe second. Sighing, he placed the rocks for heating the tub into the fireplace and sat before it on a stool. 

Day was soon turning to dusk, and autumn nights in Morrowind carried with them a certain chill, despite the volcanic landscape. He’d just finished removing his boots and was about to remove his jerkin when the groaning sound of the window being lifted interrupted him. The object of his inner discord glided gracefully into the room, despite carrying an armload of small parcels. For the briefest moment, their eyes met, and he glimpsed her unguarded face. Desolation dwelled in the depths of her apricot eyes and misery was moored upon her mouth. She quickly noted him staring and swept a veil of neutrality over her features. “I noticed earlier your reactions to the food on offer here,” she began, unwrapping the assortment of small parcels, “these may be more palatable. The bread is completely normal, guar cheese is generally inoffensive and I also picked up some mushrooms. I’m not sure how you feel about mushrooms, most people are either for or against them. They’re prolific here, no doubt something to do with the volcanic soils. And, oh, here I go, ranting again. Please, just… Eat. If you hadn’t show up when you did I would’ve had to spend another night on the road no doubt.” She ended awkwardly, a blush creeping up her neck. Lucien inwardly berated himself for dwelling on her blushing skin.  
“Thank you… The uh, proprietor’s son brought up a, uh, tub, carapace... thing,” _smooth Lucien, really smooth_ , “And what appears to be enough buckets of water to wash a daedroth. There are some stones to heat it too, here in the fireplace. I am also firmly pro-mushroom.”  
He enjoyed the way her eyes alighted towards the tub, carapace, thing. A small smile gracing her delicate face, which in that moment, Lucien decided he could spend eternity gazing at. Another inward berating followed this thought.  
She uttered words as she drifted towards the bath. There was a privacy screen leaning against one of the walls which she erected directly between herself and Lucien. “Oh, I almost forgot, the stones!” Lucien quickly grabbed a coal shovel and guided a hot stone off the girdle above the fire.  
“No, it’s fi—”  
He stepped around the screen and saw her standing in one boot, eyes wide with apprehension. Aside from when he’d followed her up the stairs, where she’d been carrying her cloak and pack over one arm, Lucien hadn’t gotten a chance to observe her. Despite her wide eyes, she was far from undressed. Only her cloak, weapon belt, leather jerkin, one boot and a curious pink sock lay discarded. His eyes quickly raked over her figure; she was wearing a dark grey linen blouse, the laces mostly undone to reveal the pale, golden flesh beneath. Tight black trousers were tucked into knee-high black boots that were in desperate need of polishing. A small foot poked out of the trouser leg on the left side. He struggled to contain a chuckle when he saw the small foot had finely manicured toenails painted pale pink. _Now that is odd for an adventurer, if that is what she is. Surely not a housewife with those weapons and obvious dexterity_. She raised her hands to cover her fully-clothed chest, before awkwardly reversing the action and standing with the stiffness of one who is trying, and failing, to act casual. “It’s fine, thank you. A simple a fireball heats the water… Sorry, I should’ve said something earlier…”  
“No, I should have provided more warning.” He turned and removed himself, and his stone back to the fireplace. But not before silently appraising her once more. She was oddly short for an Altmer, maybe 5’5” at best, but definitely closer to 5 feet than to his own 6. Another odd thing was her skin, not as golden as was the norm. It still had the characteristic golden dusting, albeit muted. The one thing that had struck him though was her heavily pierced right ear; the left, less so. A range of small studs, gemstones, hoops and even a bar adorned it, from the small lobe to the fine, pointed tip. Her quietened nature also stuck him. Downstairs, almost begging for the room, she was charismatic and bright. Upstairs, secured in their room, she was a different person. Lucien wasn’t sure which nature was attracting him, or which, if either, was real. Then, he realised he didn’t even know what to call her; his ‘wife’, his roommate, his provider of food. “Excuse me? Madam?” _Oh hells, is madam too… Old? Matronly? Smoothly done again Lucien._  
“Mmm?”  
“What do I call you? That is, what is your name?”  
There was a pause before she replied, “Is there a reason you need to call me something?”  
“Well, I thought, since we’re married and joyously holed-up here together, some form of pleasantries might be nice? I can eat and talk, you know? Quite the multi-tasker.”  
Another pause, “Was there something you wished to discuss?”  
“Well, not exactly. But in my observations as a being, who occasionally interacts with other beings, we beings converse. It’s called being sociable. Surely it wouldn’t kill you to try it?”  
“If it was sure to kill me to try it, then you’d be deafened,” she drawled. He laughed, a deep, luscious sound which warmed her more than the flames she sent into the cold water. The effect was cut short when he began to choke and splutter, “I thought you could multi-task, Imperial?”  
“If I said it wasn’t you, it was the guar cheese, would you believe me?”  
“No. Not unless you produced a report that said you suffering insanity. Guar cheese is a delectable dance on the tongue that temporarily makes one forget their own miserable existence.”  
“You make it sound like a positively cheerful experience. Besides, there are other things in this room I’d rather have danced delectably on my tongue.” Lucien didn’t know whether to be proud of himself or ashamed. _Definitely ashamed_ , he thought, as the silence became stifling.  
“Well. They also make a soft guar cheese over in the eastern provinces. If you get a chance, I recommend it fried. It melts in the mouth, although I’m not sure if you’d classify that as a delectable dance or not.”  
He could hear both awkwardness and amusement in her tone, and wondered if she, like him, was of two minds about the situation. 

They fell into slow, steady, aimless conversation about Morrowind. Lucien enjoyed her dry, often dark sense of humour. She delivered titbits about herself in a soft voice which was both melodious and hollow, revealing her experience of the province was largely limited to the island of Vvardenfell. He got the impression she was running from something, but her relatively relaxed composure indicated there was little to no pursuit. The conversation slowly ceased and she soon appeared from behind the screen. An overlarge shirt dwarfed her small frame, revealing lower legs dotted with bruises and the small, manicured, pink toenails that he’d witnessed earlier. They seemed entirely out of place on the dark-mannered elf but at least this time, he completely withheld his chuckle. _Ah, Dread Lord, at least I’ll have a brilliant tale to share when I join you in the Void_. She bailed out the carapace for him before he could protest, having to satisfy himself with observing, unaware that it was he who was being observed.

Casting aside his doubts about bathing in the shell of a dead bug, Lucien submerged himself into the flame-heated water. The grooves on the shell made for a surprisingly relaxing massage along his back, softly pressing against his tired muscles. He heard the elf vigorously fluffing a pillow on the other side of the privacy screen and had to bite back more laughter. That poor pillow; he’d killed fearsome warriors with less aggression. The entire room was soon still aside from the crackling of the fire. Lucien quietly dried himself and pulled on a nightshirt. He hoped she was asleep, because he had only packed his shortest nightshirt, in the interests of saving space, of course. Sharing rooms with strange elves hadn’t been scheduled on his holiday itinerary. As he padded softly past the small bundle of the floor, the firelight cast shadows over his mostly bare thighs, defining his honed quadriceps and highlighting pale scars. She was wrapped in the eiderdown, on the floor so close to the fireplace that he was amazed she wasn’t aflame. True to their agreement, she’d left him with the bed, a solitary pillow and thankfully, a blanket. 

Soon, dreams came and took him, to a place of peace, and war. Then he awoke to a gentle touch, giving him harmony, dissonance and more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of fluffy filler. Sorry, but also not sorry, for the waffle and if I added too much detail. We'll start getting into this soon, so buckle up.


	3. They Escaped the Weight of Darkness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: things may get a little steamy (read: smutty).

Nestled in the eiderdown on the floor, she pretended to be asleep. Watching as he silently padded past her, she admired the musculature of his bare legs as he moved towards the bed. He moved with a fighter’s grace, all lean muscle and acrobatic strength. Not dissimilar to a wolf at hunt. Despite her misgivings about the situation that was entirely her making, the evening had been companionable. He had a voice like contradictory dark velvet; rough but lush and cool but warm. Shivers cascaded down her vertebrae whenever he spoke, culminating in the spread of warmth to her face and thighs. The plan had originally been to leave Morrowind as soon as possible. Well, that had been the plan when she’d begun preparing to leave nearly 2 months ago. It turned out that dodging both your ex-husband and the Morag Tong were scenarios easier imagined than done. She resisted the urges to sigh, scream and bury her head in her hands. Instead electing to listen to the sounds of the Imperial’s slowing breaths as he drifted towards sleep. Sleep was not as forthcoming for her.  
__

  
_What a pickle you’ve gotten yourself into – again. You tore yourself from one Imperial’s bed and now you want to throw yourself into another’s._

  
The internal gears of the Altmer’s mind spun tirelessly, waging constant war on itself and the host body. The mind wanted to leave, immediately, and make for the border to Cyrodiil where it envisioned a quiet life of scholarly pursuits. The body wanted to leave the eiderdown, immediately, and make for the nearby bed.

Two alternatives fought quietly against each other until a victor was declared in the middle of the night. Standing beside the bed clad only in her overlarge shirt, she gazed down at the source of her internal struggles. His long, dark, silken hair cut a black slash against the white of the bed linen. Moonlight shone softly on his sharp features, glinting off cheekbones like knives. In the peacefulness of sleep, his lips no longer held their quirk but instead remained in smooth, static symmetry. The quick tongue that was exercised in the conversation of hours past was contained, and she wondered what it would be like to have it half down her throat. His wit and charm, those damned Imperial traits, had dragged her to this precipice. In the event this decision was indeed a poor one, it was comforting to know she didn’t have far left to fall. Abject misery was her constant companion, but his bronze eyes had promised (or threatened) to at least take her to a new height before the inevitable fall. She hadn’t been touched in so long, and the slender, dexterous hands that lay atop the blanket held within them the promise of escape. She took the plunge.

Lucien awoke with the dipping of the mattress and a weight above him. Surprising himself, he didn’t immediately lash out. He’d hung his weapon-belt from the corner of the bedhead and had a dagger secreted under the pillow, but this didn’t feel like a midnight assassination. His eyes snapped open and he saw her kneeling astride his chest. Silver hair fell around her shoulders like a stormy sea, the waves caressing him when she moved to slide further down. Her hips now firmly ensconced his and he struggled not to press upwards. The light coming in the window made her skin shine with a thousand stars held tentatively aloft over the pale tan of his own. Lucien’s body was suddenly a desert, parched and overcome with thirst. Desire jolted through them both, transferring from one to the other and causing hearts to beat irregularly. She made the first move and lowered her lips to his own. It was a kiss that begged for permission, as her full lips grazed his own. Consent was acknowledged by way of his tongue seeking her own. She tasted like mint he wondered if it was the nightcap of brandy he’d thrown back that was making him so bold. A groan escaped Lucien as she withdrew her mouth from his. The weight above him shifted and he saw the hem of his nightshirt being drawn from between them by her small hands. He noted that the fingernails did not match the toenails in colour, but they were still well manicured. The short, sharp nails ghosted along his ribs as she slid the shirt upwards. Lucien sat forward and raised his arms, allowing her to remove the fabric. He wasn’t wearing any underclothes and a small gasp escaped her as the shifting position caused him grind against her. The heat that was emanating from between her legs had him completely aroused and her momentary surprise made him grin. Lucien moved to likewise remove her shirt, but he was swiftly repelled and pushed back into the pillows. 

She began her descent with alternating bites and kisses to his clavicles. He had a smooth chest that, judging by the soft sighs escaping him, enjoyed attention. The shoulders and arms of the man beneath her were broad and strong, no doubt easily capable of halting her path should it go astray. Moving south to his taut abdomen, she flicked her tongue east and west over his false ribs. They expanded and shrunk with each flick and the more south she went, the more irregular his breathing became. His iliac furrow was well defined guided her course. Evidently, she had left her soap on the edge of the bath, because he smelt like lavender, which wasn’t a complaint. There were also no complaints when she reached her destination and found him well-endowed. 

It was an odd feeling, to go from being perpetually in control of your mind and body, to having to fight to restrain yourself. Plenty of lovers had preceded her, but Lucien had always been the one to pursue them. In the bedroom, as in business, he liked to be in command. The present situation was severely testing his restraint. It felt like fire was coursing through his veins as his hands desperately clenched the sheets, hoping to grip stability. Her fingers were running through the curls at the base of his shaft and her mouth moved agonisingly slowly across his thighs. His hips bucked in impatience, but he was rewarded only with a sharp bite. This pain came as pleasure too. A small hand moved and began caressing his balls, the thumb massaging circles directly behind them. Her tongue darted quickly up his length and Lucien couldn’t withhold a moan from the back of his throat. Her lips were soon wrapped around his length, the darts and flicks continuing as she increased speed, and pressure. Barely in control of himself any longer, he released the sheets and buried his hands in her tresses, pulling her upwards to still the administrations. She surrendered with a questioning look that was soon replaced with surprise when he used his legs to flip her over. It was time for reciprocation. 

Initially, she protested as he began to peel off her shirt, but these died when his breath hit the shell of her ear, “Please, I would look upon you. Your skin shimmers like a thousand stars and I wish to witness all those you yet hide from me.”  
Her body shuddered with anticipation and she acquiesced. Lucien emulated the course that she had taken on his body, with the addition of fastening himself on her nipples. Her breasts were full and perky, fitting perfectly into his hands. She writhed like a demon below him, making no attempt to withhold her moans. Her sweet sounds only propelled him further. Unlike her administrations, he didn’t tease. Not that he didn’t want to, it was just that he was in no state to. To have her taste melt on his tongue was all that drove him. Lucien suckled on her nub, which had made itself very visible. She tasted sweeter than he’d expected, and unbelievably, like bergamot. He lapped like a man dying of thirst, engaging his thumb to circle her pink pearl. It didn’t take long before her legs were wrapped around his shoulders and the moaning reached a crescendo. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he remembered the warning from the proprietor earlier about not causing any disturbances. Disentangling himself, he flipped the lithe elf over onto her knees and buried himself to the hilt in paradise. She met each of his thrusts as fingers bruised impressions into her hips. He was a man torn from Mundus and plunged into Oblivion, unaware of all but her stifled sounds and clenched muscles. It did not take long for them both to ascend, in a spasming tumult of limbs, to a frenzied peak. 

They drifted and dozed, slept between spaces of lust during which one woke the other and dragged them to the depths of desire and back. After each delve and descent, she lay on his chest and slumbered alongside him, his heartbeat a steady cadence. 

Lucien awoke when the first light of morning entered the room. Immediately, he noticed an emptiness. His side felt cool and there was a yawning cavity now, where throughout the night there had been a radiating warmth. He scanned the room frantically, despairing when he saw her belongings were gone. A note lay on the table, written in a small, sloping hand…  
_Thank you._


	4. When Dreams Become Daggers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When reality dims to obscurity and the darkness feels so lonely.  
> Or: a bit of a sad chapter, mostly filler. The next chapter shouldn't be far off though.

21st day of Sun’s Dusk, 3E 431  
Lucien Lachance, enigmatic Speaker for the Dark Brotherhood, a formidable association of highly trained assassins, spent the waking hours of his day in a daze. The more the sky lightened, the darker his mood became. Or, perhaps his mood was merely dark in comparison to the shared euphoria of the evening past. He didn’t know what he had expected to happen. Usually it was him leaving before his paramours awoke. Maybe that was why he felt strange? Or, was it that he who lived his life in practical, steady devotion to the Dread Father, had felt such an uncharacteristic surge of emotions that all else felt drab in comparison?

He checked out of the Inn, collected Shadowmere and moved lazily north-east. Shadowmere seemed to sympathize with his misery, craning her neck to the side to nuzzle his knee occasionally. He’d meant to reach Ebonheart by nightfall, but he barely made it halfway. Rain was pouring from the sky, drenching him to the bone. But it didn’t make him any colder, there was sorrow in his bones and it was bleaker than autumn rain. Lucien Lachance cut a forlorn figure that night, amidst trama roots and mushroom stalks, he huddled barely off the road shrouded only in despair. 

22nd day of Sun’s Dusk, 3E 341   
Before the sky had lightened, Lucien and Shadowmere were riding hard for the border with Cyrodiil in the west. Sleep had not been kind to him. A dark, welcome presence came to his dreams and although it did not speak to him, it urged him to act. Relationships, dalliances and romances were not unheard of in the Brotherhood. Even in his own Sanctuary there were flirtations and liaisons. If the Tenets were upheld, then operatives could do as they wished. There had been whispers from other Sanctuaries of families, in a literal sense of the word; of marriages and divorces. He couldn’t help but wonder, what if? He’d never know if he never tried to find an answer. 

He took a moment to gather himself before approaching the border guard, trying to plaster an approximation of a friendly visage over his own dark one. “Back again so soon, outlander? You must conduct business and pleasure very efficiently. You were only here, what, 3 days ago?”  
“You know what they say about a man chasing his dreams.”  
“No, outlander, what do they say?”  
Lucien resisted the urge to pull at his face, which felt so fake, “That he often becomes pursued by nightmares.”  
Through the golden helmet, Lucien could see the Hlaalu’s eyes crinkle slightly, “And what do your dreams look like, outlander? And no, don’t act surprised – you’d be surprised how many come looking for their quarry at these gates. Be it man, mer, beast, lover, enemy, brother or sister. I feel like Muatra, wielded by Vivec as he sought his children.”  
Lucien didn’t know how to reply, so instead of, _“I’m looking for this little Altmer who I spent the most amazing night with, but then she left before dawn and I, one of the most accomplished assassins in Cyrodiil, have been in a daze ever since_.” He went with, “Have any oddly small Altmer women passed through here? I have her… Ebony throwing knives here. We went halves in a few braces of them during the Warrior’s Festival, but then, you know, too many bottles of greef and she left without them.” It was a poor excuse, however much he moved his cloak to show the knives strapped to him. He’d nearly slipped up about the pillowcase he’d taken from the Inn, it still smelt of her and taking it was not a healthy coping mechanism.  
He couldn’t read the guard’s expression through the helmet, but his body language remained casual, leaning against the door, thumbs hooked in his belt, “Information comes at a price and you should know, you’re not the only one enquiring.” Lucien tossed him a pouch of gold and he continued, “Let’s see…” He paused for dramatic effect, slowly counting out each Septim, “She passed through here just after dusk yesterday, pretty little thing with nice, big curves,” he chuckled, a hollow sound, stopping only when he noticed how Lucien’s face remained painfully still, “anyway, she was a in a hurry, but not in so much of a hurry that she didn’t stop to find out what’s under all this golden armou…” his attempts at another lewd joke drifted off when he noticed Lucien’s eyes narrowing. He threw his arms up in a placating manner, “Alright, alright. By Vivec, you’re no fun! She paid the departure fee, plus a little extra. Wanted a map of Cyrodiil and to know if anyone had been asking about her. Well, they had. Asking about people at the gate here isn’t unusual and she seemed like she was fleeing something. But what was unusual was this other Imperial asking. He was here yesterday too, but at dawn. Went and backtracked when I said I hadn’t seen her, lucky it was shift change too, didn’t like the look of him and his blades.”  
“What did he look like? Did he have any recognisable affiliations, such as a tong or house?”  
“Possibly, sera. He seemed… Familiar, but I can’t say how. Looked like you, but shorter. Similar age, short black hair swept straight back and paler than you. But his eyes… His eyes were probably sharper steel than his blades. Had a face that meant business.” He abruptly stopped before continuing, “Well yes sir, this business with the Netch is very important to Morrowind. You see they’re found nowhere else! 35 gold is a small price to pay for such conservation efforts. In the Grazelands on Vvardenfell we have a special ecological effort in place, you should really visit it in your travels!”  
Lucien knew well enough to play along, “Thank you, serjo, I will. Perhaps on my next trip. They sound like majestic creatures.” He nodded to the guard and moved slowly to the side of the road, ostensibly to tighten the straps on his boots and the girth on Shadowmere. As he did so he noticed a dark figure striding up the road. He didn’t lose any steam until he was right before the guard.  
“Have you seen her?” His voice carried with it the cool promise of a slow death.  
“Ah, hello again. Seen who? Lots of people always asking for lots of people, it never ends.”  
Faster than Lucien’s eyes could see, the newcomer produced a dagger and held it at the guard’s throat, in the gap between gorget and helmet, “Faster than you can call for help, faster than that s’wit over there can move, I can end you. Now, no playing around. Have you seen her?”  
“Y-yes. Y-yesterday. She, she…” the guards spluttering was cut off by the point of the wicked dagger pressing into his throat. Even from his place in the shadows, Lucien could see the weapon was daedric, decorated by a cruel, red inlay down the centre. It was obviously not a common dagger. The guard’s eyes widened in fear, as the wielder began to make the weapon’s enchantment known.  
“Can you feel it? That’s your life; draining away, filling me. If you value it, I suggest you cease stuttering and begin talking normally. Immediately.”  
“Last night. She was here last night and in a hurry. Paid her taxes and practically ran into the darkness.”  
The man removed his dagger and stepped back, “Did she say anything? Any idea where she was going?”  
“No, sera. Not a word from her.”  
Lucien noted this discrepancy with interest. She’d obviously paid the guard well enough that he felt some obligation to keep his mouth shut, even in the face of death.  
“You can thank Mephala for my mercy today. But a word of this to anyone and you might not be so lucky,” the strange Imperial sheathed his dagger and pulled his cloak tight around him before moving through the gate, into the night. 

Lucien waited for a few minutes before approaching the guard, who had closed the gate and was leaning heavily against it. The guard shook his head at Lucien’s approach, “I don’t know who that Altmer is to you, but you should take this as a strong warning to forget her.”  
He clapped the guard on the shoulder as he moved through the gate and into the wilds of Cyrodiil. 

The remainder of Sun’s Dusk, 3E 341.   
For the next few days, Lucien stalked the Imperial, who was in turn, stalking an Altmer. The man in front of him had surprisingly good tracking skills, given the unforgiving nature of the Valus mountain range. Lucien didn’t have many chances to observe the man in the wilderness, he was too wary and observant. This made Lucien wonder, for the hundredth time, what he had gotten himself into. He wasn’t stalking a mere commoner and if he hadn’t recently been apprised of the status of the Morrowind Brotherhood, he would have thought he was stalking on of his own. Lucien and Shadowmere were forced to follow at quite a distance, relying on the chance that the duo in front had stuck close to the road. 

Fortunately, they had. The slowly increasing snowfall seemed to limit movement, especially for a pair fresh off a highly volcanic continent and likely ill-equipped for such inclement weather.

The high walls of Cheydinhal came in to sight the following day. However, in Cheydinhal, the track ran cold. Telaendril must have though Lucien very odd indeed, he didn’t usually loiter in town, yet here he was, skulking about much like her. He didn’t want to risk asking her about the Altmer, in case they were overheard. He merely nodded to her to reassure her nothing was amiss, before continuing to observe. In town, he could easily blend in to the masses. Surprisingly, his quarry appeared quite duplicitous in nature, he could be pleasant and charming if the need arose. Unfortunately, Lucien recognised this feature in himself. People were often attracted to the darker things in life, especially if their own existence was bleak. Lucien didn’t fully understand it, but he often took advantage of it. However, his quarry often had a glare plastered on his face, whereas Lucien could keep himself neutral. He wondered if his similarities to her previous lover had been what drew her to him. It was not a pleasant thought. 

His rival loitered near the Mage’s Guild and the Chapel of Arkay for the remainder of the day, the cold Imperial scowling at every Altmer male who passed by. This resulted in Errandil, the Living Saint of Arkay, strutting past more often and for Falcar, the only man capable of being even more haughty, to threaten to disintegrate him. The threat went unheeded as the man continued to twirl his vicious dagger and give Falcar a cold smile. 

Lucien didn’t know if the hunter had achieved anything, but the following day, he nearly ran into him on the Blue Road outside of town. Thankfully, he had his cowl pulled low over his face. He ran the risk of being recognised from the border and he cursed himself for being so foolish. The other Imperial stopped and stared daggers at him. Lucien had been to Fort Farragut briefly and had decided to take the long way back to Cheydinhal, looping around the town and onto the Blue Road. He calmly continued past his rival, who turned slowly and watched his departing figure, but made no move to follow. 

He hastened to the Bridge Inn, deciding to quiz Telaendril. She was a scout and it wasn’t unusual for him to query her. She was seated in a corner of the Inn and he glided through the shadows to join her. She raised her eyebrows in surprise at his arrival, but otherwise didn’t say anything. “Have you been in town all week or have you recently returned?”  
“I have been here all week, Speaker. Tomorrow, I go to Leyawiin.”  
He considered how to phrase his question as if he were in pursuit of a target, not an infatuation, “Have you seen a female Altmer pass through in the last couple of days; small, pale and in a hurry?”  
If Telaendril were suspicious of his question, she gave no sign, “Yes, Speaker. There was a strange elf in town two nights ago. Carried a shortsword and dagger, dressed in dark leathers. I saw her go to the Mage’s Guild and then, after dawn, she left via the West Gate.”  
Lucien resisted the urge to sigh and cradle his head. He was over a day behind again, despite obviously catching up to her some. Unsure what to do next, he rose, thanked Telaendril and departed the Inn. 

He only had a few days left of his vacation before he would have duties to resume. Making the most of it, he saddled Shadowmere and rode hard for the Imperial City. If she had ties to the Mage Guild and she’d taken the Blue Road, then chances were she may be heading to the Arcane University. Unfortunately, despite his talents, it was a place Lucien did not feel comfortable, even with invisibility spells. Instead, he wandered the city and kept a vigil on the bridge to the University, hoping to see her. Despite barely sleeping and questioning his contacts in the city, he caught neither sight nor sound of her. With a heavy heart, he returned to his duties. 

When he returned to Cheydinhal, Vicente gave him a questioning look, “I expected you to return looking refreshed and smelling of sulphur, not weary, and... Is that lavender?”  
“If I ever mention visiting Morrowind again, please dissuade me.”  
“Telaendril mentioned you’d been hunting, is that the cause of your current condition?”  
Lucien stiffened at this, his face darkening, details not lost on Vicente, “My business is my own, you’d do well to remember that, old friend.” He turned and swept out of the sanctuary, leaving Vicente curious and concerned. It was not like Lucien to turn so suddenly. Yes, he was the Speaker but he had also been Vicente’s protégée and he had not expected him to be so volatile. 

They all endured the Speaker’s foul moods for at least another half-year, before he gradually became too involved in work to worry about personal quandaries.

He slept on her pillowcase long after the lavender scent had disappeared. Continuing, in his brief periods of freedom, to seek any word or sighting of her. There were whispers from Skingrad and the Imperial City, but the trails always ran cold. Soon, it was nearly a half-year since their brief night together and while the memory was burnt into his mind, he pushed it to the recesses. Brothers and sisters had begun dying in suspicious circumstances, and Lucien Lachance, ever devoted to the Brotherhood, masked his melancholy and moved on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm rolling with this idea that I've seen around, that Lucien is/was Vicente's protégée.  
> And sorry if there are any glaring grammar errors. I'm pretty shit at reading my own work.


	5. Lavender and Bergamot, a Dark Caress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A reunion.

1st day of Second Seed, 3E 432 (15 months prior to the Oblivion Crisis)  
Lucien shook himself from his reverie. He knew what he would find in that small room on the 2nd floor of the Inn; something he had been pursuing for the better part of 6 months; something he’d recently pushed, like a dagger, to the recesses of his memory. Emotions were a curious thing, he mused. When you had spent the majority of your life suppressing them, their eventual resurfacing was overwhelming, to underexaggerate. For the better part of a year he had watched himself, sinking slowly into the depths of despair. Like a skooma addict, he had reached immeasurable highs and, unfortunately, the despondent reverse. In the past month he had detached himself, returning to his signature calmness; his signature collectedness; his signature devotedness. He cursed Ungolim. Things had just returned to a semblance of normality before this nightmare reappeared.

Upon receiving Ungolim’s missive, he had made with all haste for Leyawiin. Thankfully, Telaendril had just finished her weekly scouting of the city before he had arrived, leaving him free to act as he saw fit without her questioning why he was still stalking the same elf. Not that she would have questioned him, Telaendril was nothing if not devoted to her Speaker. But it removed any further stress from his quest, and Sithis knew Lucien carried enough stress. To his surprise, it hadn’t taken him long to find the object of his search. 

He hadn’t even entered the city when he saw her, sitting bathed in afternoon sunlight on the banks of the Niben. She looked just as he remembered her; small and lithe, with a crown of silver, and gold. Moving Shadowmere and himself off the road into the shade of the shrubbery, he observed her. Tight green pants were tucked into brown, knee-high boots which looked like they had seen better days. Her loose white shirt billowed slightly in the breeze, occasionally allowing Lucien to see the blades of her shoulders as she sat, surrounded haphazardly by papers weighed down by stones. Silver hair, streaked with gold, which had tangled around his fingers, lay braided loosely against her back. He noted she had cut in a short, blunt fringe which drew the eye to the sharp angles of her cheeks. Strands of hair, whipped out of place by the sporadic gusts, were repeatedly tucked behind the delicate, pointed ears, which had been a novelty for him on the night which still haunted him. She looked so different from when he had last seen her, no longer wearing dark leathers and a multitude of blades. Periodically she would stop drawing and drop her head into the papers on her lap. Whenever she raised her head and tried to begin anew, Lucien noted tears glinting in the light. He wondered who she had killed to gain the attention of the Night Mother. Those actions appeared to weigh heavily on her small shoulders, which remained hunched and shuddering for the remainder of the afternoon. When dusk drifted in, she amassed her papers and returned to town, oblivious to the darkness trailing her. 

Standing shadowed under a tree, Lucien waited until light from the window he was watching remained flickered out for near an hour. Dark clouds were roiling overhead, their turbulence mirroring that inside of the tarrying assassin. Casting a chameleon spell to obscure himself, Lucien prowled into the Inn, as silent as sorrow on the tongue of a ghost. Nothing disturbed his course as he glided up the stairs, all inhabitants having retired for the night, not that there were many to begin with. During his observations, he hadn’t noticed any other guests, only a few townsfolk coming in as the sun began to set. He paused at what he assumed was her door. Ear pressed against whorls in the wooden door and when, hearing nothing from within, he gestured an incantation, and crept in as the tumblers silently released. 

In his throat, his heart wedged itself. The small elf lay softly sleeping. Covered only by a sheet, Lucien watched the rise and fall of her chest. Unlike most, she didn’t look peaceful in slumber. Her brows knitted together and her mouth twisted in a grimace. Lucien glided silently forward, resisting the urge to reach out and slide the strap of her nightgown back up her shoulder. Normally, he would wait in a corner of the room for his recruits to wake, but after so long pursuing her, it was hard to keep any distance. Heat began to crawl up his legs as his mouth became a desert. He wanted her, had wanted her for all these months. With a wry grin, Lucien wondered if this is what the descent to madness felt like; a volcanic frenzy tempered only by raw wistfulness. Her head tossed as she slept, flinging pale strands across her frown. Gently, he moved them away. Unfortunately, this didn’t go unnoticed. Snapping upright she grabbed his wrist with one hand while the other pulled a small knife from under the pillow. Her cold fingers tightened around his warm flesh, round nails digging in like claws. The knife never made it far with Lucien twisting her wrist and releasing it in a clatter to the far side of the room. He hadn’t become a leader in his merry band of murders without some skill. A leg escaped the sheet and connected solidly with his own as he clambered onto the bed, attempting to calm her. Lucien winced, despite her size she kicked like a mule, “Ow, I thought you would’ve been happier to see me again, or is this just how you treat former lovers?”  
The haze of sleep began clearing from her amber eyes as she blinked at him, recognition slowly dawning, “Perhaps I just like it rough?”  
Lucien grinned and lifted himself off her, resting on his haunches, but it didn’t take long from him to realise his mistake. Quick as a viper, she snapped her knees together and pushed both feet straight into his chest. The kick sent him sliding backwards off the bed. Grappling for something to hold before landing ungracefully on his rear, he found a small foot and dragged it with him. Sailing to the floor, he noticed the flash of a talon painted purple as she began to slide towards him. They landed in a tangle of limbs and linen. The small elf had landed on top of Lucien, further knocking the wind out of him. Swiftly, he grabbed her wrists and flipped them both over, pinning her to the hardwood floor. He had her hands over her head and his hips pressed hers solidly down, but that did little to still her writhing, “You may like it rough, but that is no excuse for poor manners,” he wheezed.  
She was glaring at him, the intensity of her eyes threatening to scald him, “Says the fiend who stole into my private room in the dead of night,” she spat.  
Before Lucien could reply she wrapped her legs around his waist and craned her neck forward, crushing their mouths together. Despite the mixed signals his mind went blank, all coherence overtaken by the sudden blaze of desire. He was met with no resistance as he pulled the bedsheet out from between them and moved back to allow her eager hand to undo the laces of his trousers. It wasn’t lovemaking, but whatever it was, it was quick, messy and loud. Inside of them resided months of repressed emotions, their release coinciding with a duet sure to wake the dead.

Laboured breathing awoke him from his post-coital dreams. He was laying heavily on top of the much smaller elf, still buried inside of her. With a surge of concern, Lucien gently lifted himself off her, noting the coppery taste in his mouth. Only when he was on his elbows above her, did he notice the bite-wound on her neck trickling a lazy trail of red down her shoulder. “I’m sorry, it wasn’t my intention to hurt you. I have som–”  
She cut him off with a lazy smile and finger pressed to his lips, “Shh, you didn’t hurt me. At least not in a bad way. But if you don’t mind, I’d like to get up before my spine fuses with the floor.”  
Lucien hurriedly clambered off her and scooped her into his arms before she could protest. She showed no shame at being bundled into bed, weariness once again drifting over her face. “You know,” Lucien began, relaxing against the headboard and wrapping an arm around her, “when I steal into private rooms in the dead of night, this isn’t what I usually do.”  
“Mmm? Please, regale me with tales of your usually non-sexual midnight adventures.”  
“Well, for starters, my opening line is usually, _you sleep rather soundly for a murderer._ ” Lucien whispered huskily into her ear.  
The effect was instantaneous, although not what he expected, as her entire body became rigid beside his, “… I beg your pardon?” A whispered question wrapped in fear.  
“Do you not know, or at least suspect, who I am, little one? The way you stole away in Morrowind made me believe you’d come to realise my affiliations. But the more I pursued your ever-dimming shadow, the more I came to realise it wasn’t me you were running from, it was from a different kind of doom.”  
Her breathing was accelerating, ribs pushing against Lucien’s fingers with each further attempt to draw in oxygen and stymie the panic. She didn’t utter a sound, so Lucien continued, “After all we’ve shared, little one, I suppose it’s time for an introduction.”  
Lucien’s preface was cut short, “Does the sharing of bodily fluids between consenting adults always warrant an introduction? Or, should I say, does it warrant an induction?” She leaned forward, twisted in the sheets and attempted to shrug him off, “Overlooking the fact that it seems as if you’ve been stalking me, I was happy to classify this as another random, casual encounter between us, nothing more.”  
Tightening his grip, fingers gouging the intercostal rib space, he pulled her back, “Kiss me on the chest, because you’ve wounded my heart.”  
Lucien was unsure if her huff was amusement or annoyance, but she still allowed herself to be pulled back to his chest. Both seemed temporarily content to exist in silence until a burning curiosity forced Lucien to break it, “Do you have many random, casual encounters then?”  
Craning her neck to look at him, her face shifted from ire to weariness, “No, actually. And even if I were a finger-amputee, I could still count my lovers on one hand.”  
“Lovers – is that past or present tense?”  
“I didn’t know it was possible to find strangers this annoying,” she groaned, kicking him lightly on the side of the leg, “and, that is none of your business. Weren’t you ever told that curiosity killed the cat?”  
A small burst of laughter escaped Lucien, she could be so amusingly blunt. He allowed himself a few moments of quiet enjoyment before twisting to better look at her, with a deep breath, he began, “I’ve watched you all afternoon, sitting in the sun in such pleasant surrounds, yet oddly draped in such despair. Even if I’d never met you or had no characterisation of you, I would have known upon observing you, that you were the one I was sent to find.” He paused to gauge her reaction, which was carefully vacant, before continuing, “I am Lucien Lachance, little one, I am a speaker for the Dark Brotherhood and my voice is the will of the Night Mother. She has been watching you and she is pleased. That is why I am here, little one. I bring you an offer, an opportunity, to join our rather unique family. So, will you join us?”  
A string of expletives lingered on her lips as far too many disjointed thoughts whirled in her mind. What were the odds? Escaping the bed of one assassin to willingly throwing yourself in with another. Patterns were beginning to emerge, elements recurring regularly. Having an agreeable existence, then, a mistake (usually her own but not always) resulting in the agreeable turning to disagreeable. There were two sides to every coin and sweet things always turned sour regardless of how much you tried to preserve them. It was well past midnight; she was tired; she’d recently killed two of her fellows; she had a report due on the spatial analysis of southern Ayleid ruins; she wondered if Raminus was brushing Mittens; and oh, she’d opened her legs for the same stranger as when she was last fleeing aimlessly and the sensation of his seed slowly seeping out was possibly the straw that broke the neurotic camel’s back. She rolled away from Lucien, buried her head in a pillow and succumbed to the waves of building hysteria. 

Lucien began to suspect there were more stressors than his offer at play, especially when the combination of laughing and crying, intermixed with smothered screaming, didn’t cease. Tracing patterns along her back seemed to be soothing her, as the shuddering lessened. His fingertips trailed over vertebrae and scapulae and it was only through this did he gradually notice the faint silver scars marring her skin. Marring was not an apt word to describe them, they were so pale and faded indicating that some effort had gone into their healing. He wondered what life this little elf, who by all rights should have the world at her feet, had endured. If she maintained some semblance of mental stability, then she would be a welcome addition to the Brotherhood. 

Only when she felt numb, emptied of all emotions, did she reply, “If I accept, what then? Is there a contract? Terms and conditions that must be abided?”  
She still wasn’t looking at him, instead choosing to studiously study the pillowcase, making it difficult for him to choose his words, “There are two things you must do to complete your initiation. At the Inn of Ill Omen, on the Green Road north of Bravil, lies your main objective. At the Inn resides a man, Rufio. Kill him and I will return to you bearing the love of your new family. But first, you must tell me your name. A hunger dwells inside of me and I want to put a name to its face.”  
She slowly rolled to face him, “You’ve bedded me multiple times, the Night Mother requested you enlist me, you stalked me throughout the countryside and yet you don’t know my name? Your research skills leave a lot to be desired.”  
“The Listener doesn’t always provide me with a comprehensive factsheet. I could’ve asked around town, but I doubt anyone knows you well and you’ve probably been using a pseudonym anyway. Am I correct?”  
“You are correct and seeing as how I have once again, irreparably ruined my life, with little left to lose, I may as well introduce myself. I’m Quenwe Luseph – Altmer with an inherent understanding of misfortune and of some knowledge but few skills or attributes. It’s a pleasure to meet you and be on the cusp of joining your merry band of murdering misfits.”  
Lucien didn’t immediately reply, he was enjoying the sensation of running his left hand through her hair, each curl colliding with his calloused palm. “Luseph – a Breton surname? Patronymic I assume? Another thing we share, despite neither of us being Bretons.”  
She made a small noise of assent before rolling away, fatigue and grief making her eyelids heavy.  
“You can’t go to sleep just yet, Quenwe,” Lucien said, sliding in behind her. Her small frame seemed to be shrunken by fatigue, further dwarfed by his own. “I haven’t given you all of your instructions yet.”  
“Do you have such a fit body because your mouth constantly runs?” If lemons could speak, even they wouldn’t have sounded so sour.  
He would have normally berated anyone who spoke to him in such a manner, but he was quickly finding her volatile nature endearing. Her moods could change faster than a Septim could drop and for now, at least, it was intriguing. “I will leave you with a gift, a token from us. It is a virgin blade and it thirsts for blood. May it serve you well, little one. Now, go to sleep. You need not fear the dark tonight.”  
“Goodnight… Speaker.”  
“Goodnight, Quenwe. And, please, call me Lucien.” 

Enfolding her in his tanned arms, Lucien savoured the scent of lavender on her skin, bergamot in her hair. In this dark caress, misery had turned to majesty and despite past wounds, he longed for more pain. A man who had ventured too close to Red Mountain yet yearned to be burnt again.  
\--- --- ---  
Emptiness stretched its cool hands to dance upon her spine. The bedchamber was barren; a wooden tomb filled with pangs of guilt. Using the sheets as a protective mantle, Quenwe sat up and scoured the room for signs of life. All traces of him, of the enigmatic Lucien Lachance, had vanished bar the promised gift. An ornate ebony dagger rested on the pillow beside hers, weighing down a small piece of parchment. 

_Your path is clear. Let this not be farewell. Thank you. – L.L._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, now we're slowly moving into the questline. Reactions/dialogue aren't going to be verbatim.  
> Also, any Raminus Polus fans out there or just me?  
> As always, apologies for any mistakes.


	6. Backtracking to Brimstone and Betrayal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is largely some of Quenwe's backstory, detailing how she came to gain the attention of the Night Mother.  
> It's highly likely there are spelling/grammar mistakes, because I'm lazy, sorry!  
> There are some mentions of sexual assault, so if you're sensitive to this, maybe skip this chapter. Otherwise, if you'd like to read, I'll mark the unsafe/safe as follows:  
> * = where you should stop reading  
> ** = where you're safe to start reading again

2nd day of Second Seed, 3E 432  
Despite the water having long since cooled, remaining in the bath all day seemed like a grand plan. Propping one leg on the side of the tub, ignoring the slow trickle of water over the edge, Quenwe briefly contemplated beginning the inevitable trip north. She didn’t relish the prospect of living in the humid south forever; she’d spent her early childhood in the crisp air of High Rock. But that was before her life turned into an infinite sequence of calamitous mishaps. Shuravi and her sisters were no doubt laying in wait to ambush her after the commotion of last night. That was enough to delay her departure without considering the travel, then the murder and then, no doubt, the subsequent appearance of one admittedly attractive assassin. His smooth muscles and skilled tongue made up for his transgressions somewhat, but he likely wasn’t what one would call ‘a suitable suitor’. Quenwe couldn’t imagine him asking for her hand in matrimony or bouncing a child on his knee. Lachance could, undoubtedly, express a range of emotions but it was questionable whether they were genuine or merely convenient constructs. He was a flame and she a moth, he held the promise of passion, but could anything survive life within the fire? Passion could masquerade as love to a moon-eyed girl lost in the darkness. With a sigh she realised it ultimately didn’t matter. She’d welcome him to her bed whenever he so wished, he made her feel something that had lain dormant for so long; desired. In Morrowind he’d lain beneath her, pure pleasure dwelling in his dark eyes as he canvassed each moonlit curve of her body. He didn’t question, he acted. It was freeing to find a man who could read the wants of the flesh like a novel. A stark contrast to Raminus but she didn’t begrudge him his hesitations, he was pure-hearted and good-natured, the opposite of Lucien. Her musings were making guilt swell within her like gasses within a sun-drenched corpse. There was nothing official between her and Raminus, but there was _something_ there, if you squinted hard enough. Further attempts to mull over her misery were interpreted by the clacking of claws on the door, “Check out time was half an hour ago, elf. You have 10 minutes to leave or pay for another night and if we don’t see you in 15 minutes, we’ll add an extra fee for the excessive noise last night.”  
Cursing audibly, Quenwe dredged herself out of the bath and began hurriedly shoving papers and clothes into her pack, before cursing anew and dragging things out, realising her only clean undergarments were at the bottom of the bag. On her third attempt to remain calm and pack everything, she gave up and decided to spend another night. After the stress of this month, it was deserved.

3rd day of Second Seed, 3E 432  
The next morning Shuravi repeated her demands of more gold or get out. It caught Quenwe by surprise, again. Deciding that she didn’t march to the beat of any man’s drum, no matter how handsome he was, she darted quickly down and paid for yet another night. 

4th day of Second Seed, 3E 432  
With a handful of seconds left to spare lest she be forced to pay extra, Quenwe slammed the room key onto the front desk and swept out into the painful light of Leyawiin before she could be accosted. It was raining and puddles were littering the cobbled streets, reflecting glare that further irritated her red-rimmed eyes. She made her way towards the only other Inn in town, hoping to buy supplies. An Argonian was polishing the bar with a maniacal zeal when she arrived, but the smell of furniture oil was preferable to the prodding of the Khajiiti at the _Three Sisters Inn_ or the incessant chattering of the Bosmer at _Best Goods and Guarantees_. Practically collapsing onto a stool in front of the counter, Quenwe inhaled deeply the aroma of freshly ground coffee beans. Her bones ached as if she were a repeatedly animated skeleton. The shrill hiss of the Argonian’s greeting did little to lessen the discomfort, “Welcome, stranger, to the Five Claws Lodge! Foods and beds, cheap and good, but always clean! Witseidutsei gives you her guarantee! Everything, clean, always, or you do not pay!”  
Well, cleanliness was next to godliness and nothing ruined your day like fur in the brew. “Good morning. Coffee, please. Actually, make that two, with milk, please. And some travelling food if you have any; bread; cheese; nuts; apples. Nothing too squishy or meaty.”  
Witseidutsei counted the cost, each item added to the tally with a click of her sharp tongue. “20 Septims. It will be ready presently. In the meantime, try not to make a mess.” The Argonian spun around and straining boiling water through a sieve of ground coffee-beans. She moved with efficiency, leaving the coffee to slowly drip into a pot while she packaged the food. Quenwe slid the coins towards her when a neatly wrapped package and two steaming mugs were placed on the counter. Normally she preferred tea in the morning but today warranted something stronger. 

The folly of two coffees made itself known when Quenwe left the Inn and headed towards the western gate. Her eyelids felt impossibly stretched and the ache in her bones had been replaced with a curious buzzing sensation. Each step was a struggle, it felt as if each footfall was onto a slack tightrope over a precipice. One mismatched sock was already falling off inside of her boot despite the gate only just coming into sight, portending a hapless trip. Pinching the bridge of her nose, she continued her erratic march towards the wilderness. In her haste to abandon civilisation, Quenwe ran straight into another elf recently emerged from an alleyway. The other elf had turned her head to look behind her while Quenwe was absorbed with looking inwards, not outwards. Both had become aware of their path a fraction before collision, mutually trying to avoid the other. The other elf tried to nimbly sidestep but Quenwe, having consumed too much caffeine, couldn’t coordinate her limbs and devolved into a spasming mess. A full-quiver strapped onto the shorter elf’s back tangled in Quenwe’s cloak. Gaining some measure of control over her twitching, she unclasped her cloak, letting it fall free of the tangle before whipping it back towards herself. A change in the air alerted her to the arc of an unslung bow being swung like a sword towards her. She dropped heavily in a crouch, tight thigh muscles protesting, as the bow whistled overhead. This really wasn’t her day, or week, or even year. Standing up and quickly stepping backwards, Quenwe was struck by the vehement expression on the other elf’s face. She was a Bosmer largely hidden beneath a black hood and dark leather armour. No further effort was made to swing her bow back around as she continued to scowl at the Altmer. Sometimes relations were strained between the two races but at this moment, Quenwe felt as if she were responsible for burning every tree in Tamriel. “Please, excuse me, I should have been paying more attention to my surroundings,” she began, but further apologies were cut off.  
“Oh, don’t apologise. I know you Altmer can never see any further than the end of your own noses.” Frightening glimpses of small, sharp teeth punctuated every word.  
Quenwe straightened out her cloak before refastening it, unaware of the way the Bosmer’s eyes briefly flicked to the ebony dagger strapped to her hip. “You know, we could stand here all morning trading racist remarks, or you could climb out of your high tree and fuck off? Actually, why don’t I make it easy and fuck myself right off and right out of this haven of ill-fortune? Enjoy your stay in Leyawiin. May you get a fungal infection and have every Altmer in the south cross your path!” Quenwe stormed off, leaving the Bosmer standing startled in the drizzle. The guards tried to make conversation with her as she approached, but irritability was twisting her mouth from east to west. It was the pattern of her life repeating; the pleasantness of caffeine surging through her veins ruined by the unpleasantness of an acidic Bosmer. 

Outside of the walls, briny water lapped at the shore and assaulted her nostrils. Not far upstream, an overturned canoe with flaking paint rested, a final reminder of the disastrous surveying expedition she’d been a member of. A length of steel chain, worth more than the craft itself, was looped around a tree and through a ring on the bow. Undoing the padlock that secured it, Quenwe righted the canoe and pushed it into the Niben. Sailing upstream to the _Inn of Ill Omen_ seemed quicker and safer than making the journey on foot. The only downside was that when they’d set out, there had been three of them to paddle. Her shoulders were soon aching as she paddled. Supressed reminders of the expedition crept unbidden to the fore but Quenwe gave in to the memories, hoping they might distract her from the physical pain of the present journey.  
\--- ---  
Irlav Jarol had corralled three students into examining Ayleid ruins in the southern regions of Cyrodiil. Quenwe, Gregorius and Linus were among some of the newer enrolments to the University and, as none of the more senior students wanted to spend springtime in the humid swamps, they ended up with the task. Gregorius and Linus were both Imperials but were polar opposites. Gregorius, or, Greg for short as he liked to be called, was built like an ox and had ambitions of becoming a battlemage for the Legion. He knew only the most basic spells, preferring to show off his impressive musculature at any point by swinging his greatsword. Linus was more typical of most Arcane University students, quiet and slim; he was a voracious bookworm. When packing for the journey, Quenwe and Greg had to smuggle Linus’ copious collection of books out of the canoe, lest they slowly sink before leaving the docks. This hadn’t boded well for their trip, with Linus threatening to burn them both to ashes on their first night when he discovered the measly selection of books they had left for him. As it was, their canoe rode awfully low in the water, especially in the rear. Greg had crates of ale stacked in the stern and despite consuming far too many every evening, by the time their survey got near Leyawiin, the canoe was still sitting low in the water. 

The survey Irlav Jarol had tasked them with was estimated to take near a month to complete. They were to record all Ayleid ruins and settlements east and south of Bravil. Jarol had stressed to them the importance of this being an inclusive study, he didn’t merely want points on a map. Quenwe supposed that was why they were such a diverse little party. Greg was obviously the defender of the group, proving more than able to handle most creatures they found skulking around the ruins. Linus knew an assortment of spells from most schools of magic and was also an adept artist, able to illustrate their findings. Quenwe slotted into the few gaps that were left. She wrote the bulk of their reports, assisted by Linus’ diagrams, and could filter through any ruins largely unseen. Unlike Linus who was a broadly capable mage, her skills were mainly with conjuration and destruction. Raminus had slowly been teaching her more illusion and alteration spells and the bowels of ancient cities proved to be a prime practice field. If Greg was ever hard-pressed in battle, she was adept enough at swordplay to assist him, wielding a dagger and shortsword. But since departing Morrowind, Quenwe hadn’t the will the keep training those abilities with any real dedication. 

Three weeks into their trip found them on the outskirts of Leyawiin. They had been making transects from east to west on either side of the Niben River, recording their findings as they went. The bulk of their time had been spent recording sites along the Silverfish and Panther Rivers. It had been hard work, dodging snakes, trolls and mosquitos. Tensions were beginning to fray but only two sites remained to be fully surveyed; Telepe and Veyond. Telepe was small and only seemed inhabited by a handful of bandits, easy work to clear out. Veyond, was, unfortunately, another story. It was much larger and was swarming with trolls. It had taken them the better part of 2 days to kill all the trolls, leaving all of them exhausted and their boots stained with troll fat. They’d voted to spend the night down on the shores of the Lower Niben, away from the stench of decomposition. Only Linus had objected, citing the fact he’d have to carry his field equipment down to the boat and back up again the next day to finish mapping. 

Quenwe enjoyed their company in general. Greg was happiest whenever he was engaged in something he viewed as the pinnacle of masculinity, like crushing skulls or vaulting over fallen trees. He always had a smile on his face, even if they’d spent all day in the pouring rain being eaten slowly by insects. Despite his tendency towards sullenness and viewing himself as the teacher and them as students, Linus was usually helpful. He’d indulge them both with his hypotheses and if they didn’t understand, he’d find another way to convey a theory. But tensions inevitably rose that unfortunate night, camped on the western banks of the Lower Niben. 

While Quenwe collected edible mushrooms and roots from the abundance of flora near the river, Linus started a campfire to boil water for their dinner. They’d learnt early on not to trust any water not collected as rain. Greg had somehow already downed 3 ales before dinner and was in-full swing, alternating between bawdy songs and increasingly lewd jokes. Leaving them to clean up, Quenwe took her pack and moved down to the water. It was one of those rare nights in the south where it wasn’t raining, and she took the opportunity to wash her scant collection of clothes. If their name was an indication, then green-stain cap mushrooms did in fact, stain things green. The left sleeves of all her shirts were discoloured from collecting the mushrooms, which, if prepared correctly, made a delicious dinner. She made her way back to their camp briefly to hang her clothes to dry around the fire, noticing with a sigh that Greg had convinced Linus to join him in drinking. Greg grabbed her around her bare ankle as she moved past him and she gave him light kick. “Come on Quenwe, brighten up,” Greg laughed, “we’re nearly done in this foul swamp. And you know no-one back at the University has muscles like these!”  
She stopped and rolled her eyes dramatically at him, “Oh Greg, if only your brain was as strong as your arms.”  
Greg laughed even harder at her barb while Linus’ eyes narrowed. “You know, elf, I haven’t seen you in our dormitory recently. Some of the others have been whispering, they say you’ve moved out and into someone’s bed.”  
Linus didn’t break eye-contact while he waited to see how she’d reply but she didn’t know what to say, so she turned and walked back to the river, Greg’s gasps of shock following her all the way. 

Quenwe had been re-enrolled at the Arcane University for nearly half a year. It hadn’t been easy returning to the arcane arts after half a decade of swordplay, but she’d found an unlikely source of encouragement in Raminus Polus, one of the master wizards who often oversaw the juniors. If you’d asked Quenwe when she’d enrolled if she’d ever find herself in Master Polus’ bed, she would have laughed in your face. He was a gentle man with a roguish smirk and green eyes you could drown in, and Quenwe had been slowly drowning. But he had always seemed professional and proper. Things had escalated dramatically in the last 6 weeks, largely owing to Quenwe overstepping the boundaries but Raminus had quietly suggested she move into his chambers. He had even let her bring Mittens, the stray cat she’d taken in. As she moved into the river to bathe, Quenwe couldn’t help but think of the way he kissed her shoulders before bed, lips as gentle as a feather. She couldn’t wait to return home, Raminus hadn’t been pleased to hear of her journey, warning her against getting involved in any of Irlav’s political schemes. River weeds tickled her feet as she knelt in the water, enjoying the way the tide cradled her body. Occasionally, sounds of merriment trickled down from the men around the fire, reminding Quenwe that she couldn’t sleep in the water. She pulled on a nightshirt which hung to her knees and returned to camp, thankful that the smell of death didn’t follow her any longer. *****

A bottle of ale soared towards her as soon as she entered the firelight, catching Quenwe by surprise, the bottle threatening to drop from her fumbling hands. “So, Quenwe, is what Linus says true? Do you have a man at the University?”  
Quenwe ignored Greg’s prying, moving to sit opposite him and warm her feet. She didn’t get that far, as Greg pulled her down onto his lap and locking a trunk-like arm around her waist. “Greg, don’t be such a brute! Didn’t your mother teach you how to treat a lady?” She squirmed half-heartedly before realising it was futile.  
“I don’t remember much of my mother, she died when I was young. Now, come on, tell us, who is the lucky man? Surely not Polus like Linus claims? He’s what, nearly twice your age?”  
“I’m not making claims, I’ve seen the way his robe pitches in the front whenever she sways her hips past him,” Linus sneered, his breath heavy with ale.  
Despite her attempts to relax, Quenwe tensed, “What I do in my own time is my own business.”  
Greg drained the last of his bottle and threw it over his shoulder, the noise of breaking glass cutting into Quenwe’s nerves. “Well, it’s your lucky day, elf. You’re in the lap of a real Imperial now.” Greg’s words came out as sickly fumes on her nape, forcing fear to curl in her stomach. She noted that one of his hands was now rubbing the exterior of her thigh, it made her skin feel colder despite the heat of the night. As the arms encircling her relaxed slightly, Quenwe began to push herself into a standing position. Sharp-fingers in her hair halted the movement. Linus was now standing behind her as she sat sideways on Greg’s lap, his long fingernails scraping against her scalp as he pulled her head back.  
“I think there’s enough to share, Greg. Why don’t we show her what the pinnacle of Imperial youth feels like?”  
She saw the cruel twist of his mouth as he spoke, her neck craned backwards as he tugged on her hair. She felt the calluses of Greg’s hand as he shoved one under her nightshirt, his aims for the night becoming increasingly evident underneath her. Reacting with increasing desperation, Quenwe grabbed Linus’ forearm and summoned a spurt of flames. The reaction was the desired one, as the lean Imperial snatched his hand away howling. Snapping back upright, she swung a fist towards Greg’s face, but he was quicker and intercepted. He wasn’t a man that liked interruptions, his face growing dark with fury. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way, Quenwe.” He pushed her off his lap and followed the flail of her limbs down to the damp earth. “When I want something, I take it. Can’t you feel how much I want you?”  
Fingernails raked one side of his face bloody, but he was built like a fortress and soon had both her wrists pinned with one of his. From the periphery, she could see Linus moving towards them as Greg struggled with his belt. Tears stung her eyes but she wasn’t going to give in. Quick as a snake, she whipped her head forward and sunk her teeth into Greg’s ear. He pulled back swiftly but only half his ear came with him, the rest remaining between Quenwe’s incisors. Blood swept down her chin as she scrambled up. Linus moved to grab her again while Greg howled, but she ducked under his vicious grasp. Greg’s greatsword sat propped against his pack, the fresh oil along it’s length glowing in the firelight. When her hands locked around it’s hilt, she spun like a cyclone, using all her core strength to move the massive blade. Linus was right behind her and the sword cut through his leg like butter, severing it midthigh. His collapsing screams would haunt her days and nights; the scent of blood was cloying, it clung to her skin like wet clothing. The night wasn’t over, as Greg lumbered to his feet, bellowing at her like a Daedroth going into battle. Quenwe quickly dropped the greatsword and fell back into the comfort of conjuration, summoning a Dremora to fight for her. Brimstone mingled with the odour of oxidising blood as the Daedra appeared from Oblivion. It’s red eyes briefly surveyed the scene and noted the near-catatonic state of it’s summoner. The charging Imperial was halted when the Caitiff buried its mace smoothly in his skull. Linus’ screams were slowly fading to whimpers as the last of his lifeforce drained into the dirt. Quenwe nodded at the Dremora when it raised an eyebrow in askance at her, allowing it to return to the Deadlands. ******

Hours could’ve passed while Quenwe stood rooted in the same spot, or merely minutes. But before dawn had come, she had dragged both corpses and Linus’ severed leg, down to the river and weighed them with stones. Raminus had taught her how to use the waterwalking spell before she’d left. Who would’ve thought that it would make dragging corpses into the middle of a body of water so easy? Gregorius and Linus soon sank from sight, but not from mind.  
\--- ---  
Quenwe snapped out of her memories as dusk began to drape the landscape. She had made steady progress, despite being lost to the past. The walls of Bravil could be seen in the fading light but she paddled to west and camped there, opposite the city, not having the strength to deal with any social interactions. 

5th day of Second Seed, 3E 432  
The next day saw her pass further north and leave Bravil behind her. Lucien had evidently marked the Inn of Ill Omen on her map sometime while she had slept the night before last. Another day would see her practically in the Imperial City. She’d soon have to abandon the canoe and travel on foot. The Upper Niben was littered with ruined forts and she elected to spend another night in the shadow of one, where a bridge stood spanning the point where the Niben became Lake Rumare.

6th day of Second Seed, 3E 432  
She awoke before it was fully light, a fresh shade of emptiness dawning inside of her. She had killed before, but she had never killed a friend, let alone two. Quenwe wondered what life would be like if she had suffered their intentions that night? Doubtless, life would have been considerably bleaker. She had never betrayed anyone either, but she had welcomed Lachance between her legs, despite having some semblance of cohabitation underway with Raminus. Eating a heel of stale bread, Quenwe tried to console herself that Gregorius and Linus had received what they deserved. The pain of betrayal would fade with time; she was physically hale at least. 

Dragging the canoe further up the slope and wedging it against the bridge, Quenwe began climbing up towards the Red Ring Road. From there she could follow the road until it intersected with the Green Road. All going to plan, the Inn could be reached by the afternoon. She’d carefully collated their research notes, pilfered from her companions’ packs before she’d disposed of them, and tucked them into the base of her pack. Even if she didn’t yet know how to conceal the disappearances of Gregorius and Linus, she was still going to hand in the results of the survey. The final two sites hadn’t been fully mapped but she’d crawled through troll fat and bandit blood too many times already; the details of her memory would have to serve well enough. Intent on making it up the last of the steep scree slope, Quenwe didn’t notice the prowling mountain lion until it bared its fangs and roared. Startled by the sound, she bolted upright, briefly maintaining the posture before overbalancing. Dread curled like a shawl of ice around her neck and she began to slide slowly down the slope. Trying to pitch forward and grab something stable did little to slow the descent. It was, thankfully, near the bottom of the slope when her left leg caught on a root with a snapping sensation, while the rest of her body did not catch. Thankful, as in, at least when her foot unhooked she didn’t have far left to slide in absolute agony. Torment searing along the length of her inner thigh and for a few seconds, Quenwe questioned whether she’d ever walk again. Hisses cascading down the slope reminded her she wasn’t alone. The mountain lion was slowly picking a route down towards her. She couldn’t quite pull herself upright yet so Quenwe, once again, relied on the comfort of conjuration to save her. As the familiar scent of brimstone assailed her, she wondered if it was the same summoned Dremora who’d killed Gregorius. Judging by the unsurprised look he cast at her pitiful form writhing on the rocky shoreline, he was indeed the same Daedra. The two opponents met with the screeching sound of claws sliding along a sharp surface. All Quenwe could do was lay and wait, hoping that the Dremora won. The odds didn’t appear in her favour, at least until the Dremora somehow knocked the mountain lion off balance and leapt upon it with a sickening crunch. He shook his head at the sad tangle of elf who had summoned him before he dissipated, leaving Quenwe alone beside a quickly cooling corpse. 

Finally managing to pull herself into a sitting position, Quenwe took stock of her wounds. Her leg didn’t seem broken but at least one of the major hamstring muscles was torn, the bruising burning from knee to groin. Both palms were grazed and her right shoulder throbbed, but there were no other debilitating injuries. This was one of those moments where she lamented not being better with restoration. The grazing on her palms could be healed but she didn’t have the skill to heal muscular wounds, only surface abrasions and cuts. The slope suddenly seemed like a mountain and her leg refused to allow her to walk up it like before. Quenwe didn’t have any qualms about crawling up the slope, she was already at rock bottom and whatever dignity she had was fading fast. Her hair likely resembled something which had a flock of birds lining up to lay eggs in it. She wondered if she summoned the Dremora again, if it would carry her? Focusing on that amusing thought, she gritted her teeth and pulled herself onto the road. After laying there for what was probably far too long, Quenwe staggered to her feet, tightened the straps of her pack and began limping steadily along. 

Her estimated time of arrival had been pushed out by the significant muscle tear but she was determined not to spend another night under the stars. Twilight was not far away when the Inn of Ill Omen appeared on the horizon. She hadn’t dared stop and rest all day, fearing that if she did, her muscles would seize. Urging her legs to continue their forward momentum, Quenwe initially didn’t notice the Imperial Legion Forester shooting targets outside of the Inn. It was a small consolation that he didn’t notice her either. Unfortunately, her luck didn’t hold nearly long enough for her to shuffle past him and into the Inn. Setting his bow down, he immediately rushed over to her. “Ma'am, you’re injured! Please, let me help you.”  
Quenwe struggled to maintain her composure as the soldier picked her up in one swift action, instead of merely lending her an arm. His steel gauntlets dug into the backs of her knees, but thankfully he was wearing a shirt not a cuirass. Even with her pack stuffed with scrolls, she was still light, apparently. “I… Please… No, I’m fine. I can walk.”  
The solider ignored her protests until they reached the Inn, but instead of taking her inside, he sat her down on a barrel beside the front door. “Is it your left leg? It must not be broken but I can take a look if you’d like? We deal with plenty of injuries in the Legion, and often there’s often no one else around to help you.”  
Quenwe slid her pack off and leaned heavily against the outside wall, thoroughly enjoying being off her feet. “Thank you. I’ve been wanting to sit down all day. But no, you’re right, I don’t think it’s broken. Likely just a torn muscle. You can continue on with your duties, don’t mind me, I’ll carry on in a moment.”  
The solider wasn’t to be deterred, moving to slide her boot off as he continued with what felt like an interrogation, “Firstly, how did this happen? Secondly, how long have you been walking on it? If it is a torn muscle, then these things take time to heal.”  
The straps were now fully undone and her boot had been slid off, leaving Quenwe feeling like a cat stuck in a tree. There appeared to only be one way down from here and it involved being friendly and compliant. “It sounds ridiculous, actually, it was ridiculous. A mountain lion ambushed me this morning and I slipped down a hill. It was a long way down, and even longer back up the second time. There was an odd sensation when it happened, it felt like when a rope snapping, but inside my leg. Although, it could’ve been worse, I suppose.”  
The Forester had removed his gloves and was now tenderly prodding the length of her leg. Quenwe tried in vain to look anywhere but at him as his inspection continued north of her knee. “I mean nothing untoward, ma'am. I just wish to find the source of the pain.”  
She didn’t reply but made an effort to relax her body. He soon found and began massaging the sorest point in her thigh. Quenwe couldn’t suppress a groan as pain shot through her. Coincidently, this occurred just as the door to the Inn banged open beside them. Trembling, she turned her head and was met by a familiar, scowling face.  
“I shouldn’t be surprised to find my wife pressed up against a wall, a stranger between her legs, but yet I am.” The steel of the newcomer’s eyes cutting her more than his words ever could.  
“Ex-wife,” was all Quenwe managed to get out, before her vision started to fade and the ground raced towards her. The guard must have caught her though, because there was no impact, only the scrape of fabric against her cheek as she fainted into darkness. 

A dark figure astride a dark horse beheld the enfolding scenario from the distance. He was close enough to hear the voices carried towards him on the breeze. He was especially close enough to recognise the man who had just emerged from the Inn. A medley of emotions itched inside Lucien Lachance’s mind, hatred, resentment and envy the foremost among them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies to you all, because things got out of hand and it ended up quite lengthy. Whoops.


	7. I Coldly Stare Out; a Knife in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quenwe starts down a dark path.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for this taking so long. I found this chapter quite difficult, to bring together so many threads. There are a few parts I'm not fully satisfied with and there might be some errors. But, we'll get there! Thank you for reading!

  
Month of Second Seed, 3E 432

From a distance, shrouded by the increasing dimness of dusk, he watched the tension depart Quenwe as she slipped into senselessness. Shadowmere shifted restlessly underneath him, he was giving her mixed signals and she could sense his unease. His heels twitched; his thighs tightened; but restraint stayed his hands, pulling back slightly on the reins. Bile rose unbidden in his throat as he watched the Forester move to swiftly catch Quenwe, her limp body being snagged by weathered arms. The ever-scowling man, his face like a tundra, tried to intervene. When the Forester rebuffed his attempts to retrieve his _wife_ , Lucien watched the man’s sharp eyes grow harsher. He had shadowed that man for a week, but never once had he felt like a hunter. Shadowing him now, he wondered if he and everyone else were merely prey? He wanted to intervene, to retrieve her himself, to claim what a part of him said was now his. But only fools rushed in and he was no fool. He was a servant; he acted for the Night Mother; he was the tangible force of Sithis. His duties dictated that he must observe and no more; he had set the task and she would pass, or she would fail. Begrudgingly, the steel-eyed man gave way to the Forester, his eyes never departing from the face of the lifeless elf. His movements to follow were interrupted by the Inn door closing, the lock and bar clicking into place audibly. Curses, threats and promises were to no avail, the inhabitants seemingly wanted no more of this quarrelsome patron. Lucien turned Shadowmere around and disappeared from whence they’d come, but his mind didn’t leave her behind. Quenwe intrigued him, and it was the person she was on the cusp of becoming that he tried to imagine, but after watching the dark man in the distance, Lucien couldn’t help but wonder who Quenwe had once been. 

Artius rested his head against the Inn door, the wood feeling cool against his forehead. She was the last person he had expected to see here, at an Inn falling down in the wastes of nowhere. He could never truly banish her from his thoughts and whenever he felt free, his guilt would always remind him. Life had returned to an elaborate normality, wherein he acted as he was expected but a gnawing blackness always resided inside him. Unknowingly caught in a Dunmeri political revolution, Artius had spent a month calling a prison in the bowels of the world home. Alone with his thoughts he could soon imagine only her. Marrying not out of love, but out of necessity, their union was intended to allow them to gain a foothold in an alien society. She had loved him before he’d ever loved her, but now she was gone, the void she’d left inside him bled daily. He had never expected to feel such yearning. Artius wondered how many synonyms there were for guilt? He’d watched a flower bloom beside him, a blossom meant to flourish for centuries, but his conduct had wilted it. Before she’d dropped off the barrel, Artius witnessed what he’d created, a once beautiful flower poisoned by his own selfishness. He was at a fork in the road, one path led to her and the other led back to Morrowind. The path leading to her was a dead end, in all probability. When darkness fell, he would return to watch over her. She was suffering and he didn’t need any more reasons to feel guilt, his conscience plagued him every hour of every day. 

As soon as Darius and his armful stepped over the threshold, Manheim slammed the bar of the door down and locked the bolt in place. “Had enough of that one these past few days. All he does is sit and stare daggers at us. Something’s not right with him, I tell you.” The pounding on the door soon began and Manheim winced, “Hope he stays out there, his coin ain’t worth the trouble. Speaking of trouble, Darius, I distinctly heard him say wife. Please tell me that ain’t the man’s wife you’re carrying.”  
“Ex-wife, she said. Is there a spare room upstairs?” Darius asked, already moving towards the stairs, “She’s injured.”  
“Aye, there’s a free one, now that the one outside is leaving.” Manheim’s words were punctuated by increasingly lurid threats. “By the Nine, he better leave or I’ll be sending you out there to deal with him, Darius.” He shuffled over and started up the stairs in front of Darius. 

Manheim opened the room door for Darius before excusing himself. The banging from downstairs had ceased, leaving an unnatural silence to permeate the building. The woman in his arms had not stirred once in the handful of minutes it had taken to carry her upstairs. A bedroll and chest were the only furniture in the tiny room, unless you were an insect, in which case the liberal masses of cobwebs may provide abundant uses. Darius had snagged her pack as he’d collected her, but not the boot he’d removed earlier. She was light, like a sack of feathers; soft but sharp. She still hadn’t stirred, which concerned him. He was no nervous youth, but he was still hesitant to remove her clothes to find the extent of her injuries. His wife had died, nearly a decade ago after catching the consumption and his daughter was now a woman in her own right, married to a young farming lad. Darius generally led a lonely existence, hunting and scouting for the Legion drew you away from civilisation and his daughter barely wrote anymore. The memory of Julia faded more with each day and although he still loved her, he wasn’t married to a memory. He’d had dalliances but few wanted to marry a man gone for most of the year. He found the most warmth came from fellow travellers he met at Inns around the country, mutual loneliness drawing them together, albeit for an evening. Removing her other boot and moving to the belt around the elf’s hips caused Darius’ hands to shake, but he was above all, an honourable man. If he had to do something as improper as undress a lady to save her life, then so be it. Her skin was kissed by milk and honey, a pale gold that shone as he lit the meagre candles in the room. Bruises were blooming across her like a midwinter morning. He was relieved to find no open wounds or signs of anything serious amiss internally. Her left thigh had a streak of blue slowly darkening down it and her back was dotted with burst capillaries, but there was nothing fatal. She would heal, slowly, her body would likely be stronger as the muscles repaired. Pulling a blanket over her frail form so his eyes wouldn’t linger, Darius left the room to collect supplies and the clothing left outside.

Her mouth felt like a dry riverbed; cracks baked hard by the unrelenting heat of midday. The promise of water was encouraged by the meagre saliva that withstood each breath. Her nose was blocked, slowly fuelling pain that was blooming across her cheeks. Damp trails escaped from her eyes, their saline drips irritating the delicate folds of her ears. Quenwe didn’t want to break through the surface into consciousness. Being asleep meant being unaware and being unaware equalled bliss. But each irritating breath that passed over the parched surface of her tongue was slowly dragging her towards wakefulness. It felt like she was tucked into a bed, a rather hard and uncomfortable bed with a non-existent mattress. Noises started to filter into her mind; resonant; hollow echoing; a cloth murmuring. Trying to open her eyes felt like trying to see through sediment in a river; the soft light of candles assaulted her as if it were midday; grains of salt and sadness irritated both corneas. Trying to sit up was akin to receiving multiple piercings all at once, except they were no longer restricted to her ears. Strong hands immediately grabbed her shoulders and eased her back down, but the pain didn’t recede. “Easy now, just take it slow. You’ve been out for a few hours.” The low-pitched voice reverberated through Quenwe’s aching bones like thunder.  
“Is there any water?” the request came out like a rasp, sliding painfully over the larynx with each syllable. She felt, rather than saw, the man move away from her side. Her eyes were open, but they didn’t want to focus.  
“Here,” a strong hand behind her neck, “don’t drink too much too fast or you’ll be ill.”  
It was nectar; ambrosia; the drink of the Gods and Quenwe drunk deep. Her tongue unstuck and her vision focused. A cursory glance would reveal her to be a functioning elf but the façade was still fragile. “I don’t know how to begin thanking you, sir. You’ve done so much for me, but I’ve done aught for you but be a nuisance.” She was trying to keep her eyes levelled on him as she spoke, but they kept drifting down to her lap.  
A gentle smile pulled at the edges of her vision as he began to speak, “Nonsense! Even if wasn’t my duty, I would have acted as I did. Any man worth his salt would have done the same. Now, no more apologising. I’ll go see what Manheim has to eat and bring you a little something. There’s a wash basin if you’d like to freshen up as well.” He pointed out the amenities and soon departed the room.  
Despite her body protesting like a ship’s mast in strong winds, Quenwe managed to stagger to her feet. The room wasn’t spacious, but it had four walls and surprisingly, there were no draughts or drips. A small window with a rusty latch and framed with slowly rotting wood faced the road; it could provide a quick exit if necessary. But, judging from the state of the wood throughout the Inn, any hasty exit could be one filled with splinters and later regrets. Quenwe didn’t have many clothes to remove, only her underclothes and shirt. The meagre wash basin provided a sparrow’s bath which, given the past few days and the surroundings, was a welcome luxury. Snarls, tangles and leaflitter resided in her hair, but the water provided didn’t stretch that far, so a combing would have to suffice. A knock announced the arrival of food as Quenwe was tackling one particularly nasty knot. The fare was simple; cheese and bread. But it tasted divine. The Forester had also returned with her missing boot, “I managed to retrieve this, there wasn’t a soul in sight outside. If you feel like any fresh air, you should be safe to venture out. I’ll be around the area for the next few days, should anyone cause you grief. Manheim owns this establishment, don’t be afraid to holler at him or I if you need anything – anything at all. Now, I’ll leave you to rest.” With that, he turned his sunset face away and departed. Quenwe wondered for half a heartbeat if his sudden colouring was due to her attire or the candle light, but she was too tired to care. She shuffled to the window, careful to slowly survey the road and treeline for any signs of life. A torch lit on the porch of the Inn provided a small glow but otherwise, all Quenwe could see were differing shades of grey. Deciding to sleep and hoping that she wouldn’t be accosted, Quenwe eased her battered body down to the hard floor. Before giving in to her lethargy, Quenwe briefly cursed both the Mages Guild and the Dark Brotherhood. The past month had largely been nothing but mosquitos and misfortune. All the disastrous Ayleid research could wait and so could Rufio, he could endure a few extra days before being sent to the Void. 

Quenwe slept most of the next day and spent the evening staring at the ceiling, self-pity gouging her spine more than the uneven floorboards. Pain lanced up her leg with every step, so she merely lay in the dusty room. Despite the humidity of the season, it was nothing in comparison to the stifling, melancholic emotions that hung, suffocating, in the increasingly claustrophobic room. Darius visited her twice but, evidently found the brooding atmosphere to be smothering. The energy required to be courteous was beyond her but when he left for the second time, Quenwe regretted being hostile. When the shell you inhabited displayed its customary hostile nature, finding yourself alone should cease to be a shock, but it always left a searing crater and bitter taste. Manheim appeared at random intervals, bringing food, water and somewhat welcome interruptions to her sulking. Convincing herself that she was a deplorable semblance of existence was a small consolation to Quenwe; it soothed the guilt of writhing with Lucien; it eased the guilt of associating with the Dark Brotherhood; but try as she might, it never erased the hypothetical, green-eyed disappointment of Raminus that stared back at her when she closed her eyes. When sleep and nightmares clawed her into their depths, Quenwe was oblivious to the watchful gaze from outside her window. 

Pressed against the dry, fracturing veneer of the Inn, a stern face with iron eyes observed the tangle of clammy, flailing limbs with wavering apprehension. A sixth sense alerted him to eyes on his back, but no amount of swivelling could identify the source of his unease. Artius wondered what Quenwe had gotten herself into since she’d left him. Despite despising himself for it, he felt torn; his heart desired to comfort her; but his brain argued that he should depart. Old men said that time healed all wounds, but theirs appeared to be festering. 

Allowing a small amount of appreciation to creep into the profile he was building, Lucien crouched in the underbrush off the road and watched his prey scale the wall of the Inn like it was flat ground. His prey merely mirrored his own actions, and sat, silently watching what Lucien presumed to be Quenwe. He seemed unfazed by the strain of clinging to the abraded wood, the only stress he displayed was when his head snapped around and raked continually over Lucien’s hiding place. During his night time surveillance, for this was the second night he had observed this phenomenon, Lucien had complied a list of possible identities for his prey. It was a short list: Morag Tong member, private assassin or thief. He ruled out thief, all of the wealth in Cheydinhal hadn’t caught the man’s eye once. He ruled out private assassin on the basis that he had come from Morrowind where that business was frowned upon. That left one possibility: Morag Tong. The man moved like a hunter; each movement fluid and graceful. Two blades obviously adorned his hips, no doubt other tools ensconced elsewhere. Scowls perpetually lined his face, perhaps an indication of a personality frequently engaged in bloodshed. But perhaps the biggest indicator was his eyes. They reminded Lucien of the landscape surrounding Bruma; cold and barren. It was no secret that the Morag Tong and the Dark Brotherhood despised each other, and necessity reasoned that he had to observe a possible threat. Or, so he told himself, crouched in scratching shrubbery, dew seeping slowly through his robes, every time he questioned his actions. If he could be certain of his suspicions and certain of the outcome, then Lucien would kiss his blades, pray to Sithis and advance. But he couldn’t be certain and now that the prey was wary, the element of surprised was dampened. Morag Tong members were masters of dealing death in the open. While Dark Brotherhood members were masters of darkness. Lucien knew that even he would be hard pressed in an open fight. Lucien supressed a chuckle, he was an assassin, observing an assassin, who was observing a would-be assassin. Irony was humorous but it wasn’t an argument. 

It was Darius’ offhand comment about a barrel she could use to bathe, that finally drew Quenwe out of her confinement on the third day of her stay. The stairs were a nuisance, but the pain was slowly fading, even if the bruises did not. Concerns about how she, an injured shell of an elf, would clamber into a barrel soon abated when she saw Darius had stacked up two round logs of firewood, effectively a small staircase. The Forester looked abased when Quenwe gave him a brief hug of gratitude. As soon as she sunk into the warm water, Quenwe felt the melancholy sluice slowly off her skin. However, this was soon followed by the realisation that while there were blocks outside the barrel, there were none inside. Hopefully one alteration spell or another would provide a solution. 

Emerging from the bucket feeling nearly normal, Quenwe spent the remainder of the day downstairs with Manheim. He chattered happily about anything, seemingly unfazed by her often stilted conversation skills. “The better rooms are downstairs, but old Rufio is holed up in one.”  
“Holed up? Is he hiding from something or is that just a pun hidden in a turn of phrase?”  
“He seems to be laying low. But it’s none of my business, he pays his tab. If you’re bored you could pop down the hatch and visit, but don’t expect a warm welcome. Skeevers have more personality than that old codger.”  
Quenwe was starting to wonder if the underground puns Mannheim was making were intentional or not. It made her think of Raminus. She loved annoying him with puns and he’d always sigh, but amusement crinkled the skin around his eyes. At least her injury was a convenient excuse for being surly. “So, does he ever come up and socialise?” She had to try to research the man she’d inadvertently signed up to kill.  
“He comes up sometimes, but not to socialise. Gets his supply of wine, ale and some scraps of food before going back down. Man keeps largely to a liquid diet, if you know what I mean.”  
“Hmm. Well, maybe the walk down there and back will be good for my leg.”

A musty smell pervaded the entire subterranean level. Quenwe’s nose twitched and she fought off a sneeze. Irregular snores echoed throughout the area which was shoddily divided into separate quarters. At least it sounded like he was dead to the world. Unlike most of the other hinges, the door to Rufio’s room swung inwards without a sound. If it weren’t for the bed posts peeking miserably out of the bottle piles, Quenwe would’ve suspected the old man before her was sleeping on nothing but glass. The musty smell of the other room had nothing on the pungent piss and alcohol that clung to Rufio like a robe. The ammonia burnt her eyes and throat, tempting her to kill him for his filthy hygiene alone. He wouldn’t be hard to kill now, and hopefully even easier in the dead of night when all above were asleep. Manheim must sleep in the other quarters, or Minerva who he’d mentioned, whoever that may be. Deciding it was well past time to leave for fresher air, Quenwe scampered upstairs, ignoring the agony of her leg in favour of breathing.

She spent the remainder of the evening at the bar. Manheim had put a dash more effort into the nightly meal than usual; the gravy of the stew less congealed. Despite his efforts, Quenwe declined when it was offered. But at least the man knew how to mash a potato, and do it well. Rufio would have to continue his deplorable existence for at least another day, if not more. She wasn’t yet capable of escaping hastily if it came to that, and if the pitiful excuse for a man showed any resistance, then Quenwe had doubts she could overcome him. As it was, Darius’ attention, combined with Manheim’s droll tones were slowly combining into a vapour that was bound to render her non compos mentis. Darius was incessantly jiggling his leg on his on his bar stool and each time his knee bumped hers, she was hard pressed not to visibly shudder. It was a relief when the clock announced it was socially acceptable to courteously depart the common area in favour of pressing muffled screams of frustration into her pillow. 

The door to her room was scratched and dented; the dull handle loose. There was no angled glass lens set into the door as at fancier Inns, which was a shame. Although if there was, it probably would have been a stretch for Quenwe to pull herself up and look out of it. And, in this instance, as she fought with the loose door handle, it was unlikely she would have been looking in to her room to see who was there. A dark cloaked figure sat waiting on her bedroll as she finally wrestled the door open. Instant relief swept through Quenwe, days of tension melting off her like snowmelt. The figure began to rise and she rushed forwards, “Lu–” she bit her greeting off when she realised it wasn’t the man she expected. Throwing back his hood, Artius stared questioningly at her, his grey eyes carefully still. She stumbled but pressed forwards, “Look who it is,” came her lame greeting, the first word drawn out dramatically. The weak cover up didn’t appear to take.  
“Hello, Quenwe. Not who you were expecting? Sorry to disappoint, yet again.” Despite telling himself he was here to reconcile, to council and comfort, Artius couldn’t hold back the bitter edge of his tone.  
“I was actually expecting the comforting solitude of an empty room, so yes, you should apologise for ruining it.” They stood an outstretched arms distance from each other, pushed and pulled by magnetics. He made no effort to reply, so she made no effort to continue. Artius had a stern, pale face, eternally in need of a shave regardless of when the last was. Razor-hewn cheekbones reinforced the flinty visage, but despite all appearances, there was tenderness within the man. It might require an archaeological expedition, but deep down, surrounded by fortified walls and scowls, resided a rare warmth. Quenwe sighed, no longer able to tolerate his silent scrutiny, “Art, I don’t know what you want, but unless you state it, it’s high time you left. I’m tired, sore and this is gruelling.”  
“Who did you think I was, when you walked in? Because it was like watching something akin to necromancy, all life seemed to relight within you.” He made to move closer, but the way she flinched was like a knife to the gut.  
A reply came in a tone near whisper, “Maybe I mistook you for a memory?”  
There wasn’t an adequate way to respond, so he was forced to change the topic, “Are you wounded badly? I’ve been wracked with concern since I saw you the other day and I know you don’t wish to hear it, but I’ve missed you. Please, Quenwe, is there no way we can fix things? Time hasn’t lessened the regret I feel, only multiplied it. When you left, you took a part of me with you. It’s not easy to live when you’re not whole.” He knew his mistake immediately, seeing her eyes narrow.  
“How is, what’s her name, you know, that bug-eyed Bosmer dullard I found you buried inside of? How’s she these days? Still curvaceous and shrill? Did you ever see her sclera, maybe when her head was thrown back, or are her eyes entirely black? Are you going to marry her? Probably not, I mean, you don’t seem to place any meaning on that bond.” Quenwe had taken on the timbre of a wounded animal, finally pushed into fighting back.  
Now it was Artius’ turn to sigh, “Quenwe, I’m not here to argue with you. Especially not about personal failings, of which I am fully aware. I’m here because I still care. I’m not sure if it was chance that brought us together here, but I know you’re mixed up in something. Chaos always seems to gravitate towards you. I want to help you, so for once, please just let me.”  
“I’m not mixed up in anything and even if I was, you’d be the last person I’d want assisting me. Unless it was a special set of circumstances warranting the involvement of a Morag Tong Grandmaster with a reputation for being a cheating, lying scoundrel, in which case, you’d be my man, Artius.” Quenwe paused only briefly in a futile attempt to draw regular breath, “Now, please, Artius, leave.”  
He moved towards the door, shoulders heavy with the weight of defeat, “Quenwe, you know how to contact me, so please, if there’s anything at all I can do... We still regularly check the dead-drops here in Cyrodiil. If it’s worth anything to you, Casdra is dead. I killed her myself.” He halted, unsure if he should continue, “Sometimes, in sleep, I still remember the Sixth House dreams. Madness tore me from you and now it follows every waking step, no amount of death severs the sickness. Cut yourself lose from the weight of me and fly to the top of the tibrol tree. Goodbye, sweet.” When he reached the door, he stopped, turned around and focused his gaze on her pack. The blade Lucien had given her was wrapped carefully in there. There was a sheen over Aritus’ eyes as he spoke his final words, “Never take a life carelessly. It cheapens you and diminishes you. Take life seriously if taking life is your profession.” His footfalls were silent as he swept away, the only sound was the hammering of Quenwe’s heart inside her hollow shell. 

Time passed like a lame horse galloping towards the horizon, it was quick but slow, the unknown destination always in sight but always unreachable. Deep stretches, gentle exercises and the march of time were healing Quenwe’s physical wounds, while the emotional ones smouldered. Artius’ words whipped in her mind like forgotten laundry on a line, each sleeve flapping in the wind was a sharp memory. She’d only ever kept the accounts, but the gossip of the assassins always said there was no honour in the Dark Brotherhood. It was fitting then, for she was running low on honour herself. Confident that tonight was the night and tomorrow was the welcome departure, Quenwe endeavoured to act nonchalant. Unfortunately, this involved continuing to be courteous to Darius. Yes, he’d helped her when she’d arrived but now roles were reversed, and the man was just a burden. Tensing her jaw, she stood rigid while trying to feign some interest in archery. Darius kept finding excuses in her posture, reasons to align himself behind her and guide the shots. It was a struggle not to give him a face full of yew. When dusk finally fell and all had retired for the eve, it was almost a relief to steal into the cellar bearing death. 

She’d come prepared, a wet cloth tied around her face to ward off the worst of the pungent gases. Almost humming from the abundance of magical effects cast upon her person, the flickering form of Quenwe blended into the surrounds and crept forward. A small bundle under her arm provided little hinderance to casting. Rufio’s door swung, thankfully, without a hitch or squeak. He lay in squalor upon his filthy nest of vice. His murmuring marked him as, unfortunately, awake. When she’d spied upon him last, he’d looked pitiful even asleep, now, he was markedly more so. A dark green bottle swung precariously in one grimy fist, as he lay half-propped up, lamenting, “Stupid girl, pretty girl, why’d ya struggle? Dumb lass, lovely lass, why’d ya have ta make me do it?” The flickering light reflected off his bald pate as his head bobbed with each word. Awareness flickered into his bloodshot eyes as the door shut, but it didn’t come quick enough. Paralysis came swiftly over Rufio’s paltry form, covering him in a green glow fitting for one so vile. Deciding against bloodshed or any obvious injuries, Quenwe quickly unfolded her bundle and pressed the leather pants firmly over Rufio’s lecherous, still face. The pants had been a dumb addition on an expedition to the south, so when she discarded them after smothering Rufio, they wouldn’t be overly missed. He didn’t fight, not outwardly at least. His dark eyes pleaded into hers and she calmly gazed back. Quenwe had taken what Artius had said to heart, death was not to be taken carelessly. Panic swelled in Rufio even as his pupils shrunk, his lungs fighting for breath that couldn’t be drawn in. Death didn’t fly on brisk wings, the struggle dragging on even as the paralysis wore off. But while the green glow faded, so too did Rufio’s energy. There was no force behind his futile flailing. Quenwe stayed bent over the man long after he was dead, just to be certain. On some level, his death felt like justice but on another, it felt like compassion – and not for his victim. 

Telling herself that absconding at dawn after dealing Rufio’s death could be considered suspicious, Quenwe spent a final day at the Inn of Ill Omen. The name was apt. When Darius’ hand found its way to her thigh before dinner had even been served that eve, Quenwe decided that was enough, deportment be damned. The stool crashed over, and she snapped upright, ignoring the now barely perceptible twinge in her hamstrings. Manheim looked up from stirring his pot of gruel, eyes flicking between the Forester and the elf. Bothering not explain, she stormed upstairs, making sure to slam the flimsy door as hard as it could handle. 

Sleep was not restful, despite not having slept since killing Rufio. Dreams of men came to her, their faces blended into a gruesome form of disappointment and resent. She awoke every hour to check whether it was time to leave. Deciding that it was better to walk in the dark than toss and turn, Quenwe sat up. A familiar dark figure sat cross-legged on the floor beside her bedroll. Familiarity didn’t save her from the shock. “Well done, little one. Rufio lies dead. An unfortunate drunken asphyxiation, but no less than he deserved.” He didn’t move as he spoke, except to raise his hickory eyes to hers. Whatever panic gripped her heart had moved to her tongue, holding it firmly down. Quenwe didn’t know if the wistful expression on Lucien’s face was real or a remnant of resent from her dreams. It was an effort to nod, but she managed it. “Has something happened to your tongue? I’d hope not, it was rather skilled.” Although it was meant in jest, something was lost in delivery and there was an astringent aftertaste to his words.  
“Hello, Speaker. I have done as you commanded, and I apologise for the delay. Please forgive me.”  
“You ask for forgiveness where none is required.” They continued to stare. Lucien noted how she appeared to be waning; a star already fading. It was a cause for concern. He wondered, doubtfully, if it was the task that had her so drawn and thin. “You’re now one with the Dark Brotherhood; a Dark Sister whom the family welcomes with open arms. When you’re well, go to Cheydinhal. There’s an abandoned house, find your way inside. When asked, answer thusly, _Sanguine, my Brother_. Once admitted, speak with Ocheeva. Now, get some rest, Quenwe, you sorely need it.” He stood to cast a spell and leave, but a tugging on his hem made him pause.  
“Must you… Leave?” Her voice was small, and it caused something in Lucien to pang painfully.  
He hesitated before answering, but his actions spoke just as clearly as his words, “I will stay, if you promise to rest.” He sat on the floor beside her bedroll, relieved when she nodded and crumpled into the blankets. Lucien didn’t know when her hand found his, but the small, soft palm was a welcome balm to his own internal conflicts. Her breathing barely evened out, coming in halting gasps as she fought against weariness. But even when Lucien knew she was asleep, he stayed, observing her as he tried to gain a measure of himself. 

Before the sky was light, Quenwe was out the front door. Her room had been empty when she’d awoke, far later than intended. A note to Manheim thanking him wholeheartedly for his hospitality had been left on the bar. Despite his lacking culinary skills, Quenwe had come to enjoy his company, even if it was just a monotone in the twilight. A voice from the gloom interrupted the beginning of her journey, “You’re leaving early, Quenwe, and without so much as a goodbye.” Darius’ form materialised slowly as he stepped into the light of the solitary torch by the front door.  
Quenwe had not foreseen this obstacle, “Good morning, Darius,” she began as cheerily as could be managed, “I didn’t expect anyone to be awake at this hour and now that I’m healed, the more progress I make today the better.”  
The cheery tone of her voice did little to crumble the Forester’s stony visage, “Last night, after you so rudely departed, we found Rufio dead. He likely drank himself to death, but his addiction could cleverly disguise a murder.” He paused to regard her smooth face, “Why do I feel as though you’re sneaking away?”  
Of all the scenarios Quenwe imagined, this was not one of them. At best, Darius would let her leave, albeit with scorn still painted on his brow. At worst, he wouldn’t let her leave at all. She knew that her actions last night, when he’d tried to touch her thigh, were the root of this problem. Some people were already so poisoned that they’d find insult in the smallest of things. He was using Rufio’s death as a shroud for his own wounded pride. She decided to address that, rather than the passing of Rufio, “Darius, I cannot begin to thank you for all your help. You’ve been nothing short of wonderful. You startled me last night. I haven’t had any luck with men throughout my life and I certainly never expected to gain the attention of someone so far above me. I’m sorry I ran last night but I didn’t know what else to do. You’re a truly generous, noble man and you deserve so much more than I can ever offer you.” The lies came like reflux up her oesophagus, leaving a burning sensation in her throat.  
Darius stepped closer still, his features softening, “Oh Quenwe, how wrong you are.”  
A rough palm pressed to her check preceded Darius pressing himself fully against her. Quenwe tried to sever body from mind and tolerate it, desperate to avoid a fight.

Lucien had barely made it out of the small bedroom before Quenwe fully awoke. He’d sat beside her during the deepest of night, drooping occasionally but never letting go of her hand. Just as he was checking Shadowmere’s hooves for any stones, along the road from the Inn, voices carried over the rolling fog. Recognising both, he swept through the haze in search of more information.

Darius had manoeuvred them around to the side of the Inn. His lips were rough and cracked from the attention of a thousand suns, they crushed against hers, and she fought the rising bile. Quenwe was slowly running out of options and with each of his inelegant touches, she was getting angrier. She wasn’t angry at Darius alone, he truthfully thought she was agreeing to this. But she was angry at Gregorius, Linus and memories buried even deeper. Light was only just beginning to grace the sky. Darius only wore his casual clothes and no armour. She snaked her arms around his broad shoulders, briefly appreciating the musculature despite the situation. Careful to play the part, she let out a breathy moan as his parchment tongue moved to her neck. There was little time left to continue contemplating a course of action, as a hand moved under her shirt. Her nails dug involuntarily into Darius’ back, but he took it as approval. The somatic movements for conjuration spells were second nature to Quenwe. With a dance of fingertips, she summoned a Scamp. They were occasionally found roaming the forests of Cyrodiil and it was a low energy expenditure. It cost her little to force terror into her tone and go rigid, as she whimpered, and pushed Darius back. She stared wide-eyed past him and, buying it, he spun around, drawing a small knife from his belt as he did so. Hopping from foot to foot, the red skin of the Scamp glowed in the slowly increasing light. Quenwe had strapped Lucien’s gift to her hip before leaving this morning, it was the only blade she had, the rest being tucked away at the Arcane University. Most mages rarely carried swords, but Artius’ had taught her well, in another lifetime. With barely a whisper, the ebony dagger slipped free of the sheath. One smooth motion was all it took, sinking to the hilt beneath Darius’ ribs. The angle of the blade had forced it upwards through vital organs with little resistance. Grief swept through Quenwe as the Scamp let loose at fireball at Darius’ sagging form. Despite his few faults, he had been a good man, a just man. He didn’t deserve to die like this, betrayed in an act of tenderness. With her face dripping, Quenwe removed the blade and swiftly dispatched the Scamp with it, rather than unsummoning it. Using its claws, she raked Darius’ lifeless face, the weathered skin splitting in bloody rows. It would appear to most that the Forester had died, surprised in the dark, at the end of Daedric talons. Sobbing, Quenwe washed her arms in the well behind the Inn. She hadn’t lied when she’d told Darius that he deserved so much more than her. When she staggered on to the road, shuffling towards the Imperial City, each step was leaden. She didn’t notice the simmering figure in the fog, watching her leave.


	8. The Pain That Wounds You, Too

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Homecomings, of sorts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for this taking so long! Things feel rather disjointed and I really struggled with this chapter. It is largely filler but it does bridge some gaps, but, it probably poses more gaps than it fills. Posted this impulsively rather than proofread as I should, so, sorry for the inevitable errors.

Month of Second Seed, 3E 432

Cloistered away, atop a stone sleeping slab inside a stone-walled sanctuary at the end of a stone-lined hallway, Vicente Valtieri assumed he was safe from Antoinetta’s cooking odours. He was wrong. Vicente had been roused, unfortunately, in the late afternoon when the stench of garlic began wafting through the small spaces between the door and frame to his quarters. Aside from making his eyes water, Vicente’s garlic allergy always put him in a notoriously foul mood. The Breton had been turned from mortal life over three centuries past, yet was a modest member of the Cheydinhal Sanctuary, preferring to mentor newcomers to the Dark Brotherhood rather than seek status and notoriety. Vicente strode out of his quarters with anger echoing from each footstep, hastily pulling a loose linen shirt over his pale torso. Well-fed vampires were visually akin to humans, their features taking on warmth and fullness. Vicente had not fed recently; his normally angular features were further pronounced. Cold, pallid skin stretched painfully over his cheekbones, a stark contrast to the irate red eyes above them. Vampiric strength increased with blood deprivation, but unluckily for Antoinetta, it also increased Vicente’s ire. Halfway to the kitchen, his fingers curling, clenching, unclenching, Vicente rounded a corner and somehow, narrowly avoided colliding with Lucien Lachance. It took considerable effort not to bare his fangs at the Imperial, but he was the Speaker for this Sanctuary and taking out personal irritations on the Speaker was never well-advised. “Where is Ocheeva? I require her audience, now.” Forgoing even a greeting, Lucien’s rich, brusque tone swept over Vicente like warm rain; an odd sensation but not entirely unwelcome.  
“Hello to you as well, Lucien,” he began, unable to entirely contain his annoyance, “and in response to your pressing question, Ocheeva is out for the day, due to return sometime this eve.” He noticed the deepening scowl on other man’s face, a face he had watched grow from adolescence to adulthood. Lucien Lachance was a man who inspired loyalty in those around him. He was honest with his Dark Brothers and Sisters, even if the truth was brutal. He had, like many of his race, a natural aptitude for leadership; he was attentive, insightful and sensitive. When the former Cheydinhal Speaker had met her demise trying to complete a contract, Lucien had been rewarded with the position. It was a position he had justly earnt, possessing authoritative and assassination skills. Over time, Vicente’s fondness for his former pupil had shifted into something else and judging by the honeyed-looks Lucien received wherever he went, Vicente wasn’t alone in his feelings for the man. Shaking his head slightly, he tried to focus on the man in front of him, not the man he dreamt of. Bistre strands had escaped from the usually neat ribbon at his nape. They framed his face, caressing sharp cheekbones and flowing over the chiselled jawline. His eyebrows were like two dark, jagged cuts, beginning as fine arches before rapidly descending towards the bridge of his aquiline nose. Currently, Lucien had what could only be described as thin lips, drawn into a cruel smear across his face. But Vicente had witnessed how full and lively they could become. His anger was lessening, despite the scowl staring back at him, “Is there anything I may assist you with?”  
Lucien rubbed a hand across his face, trying to erase tension, “Thank you, Vicente. No, I shall wait, there is a new Dark Sister I need to brief you both on. There is plenty of paperwork to occupy me until then.” He moved to turn away, but paused, drawing his lips into a lopsided smirk, “I’d join you for dinner, but that amount of garlic smells toxic even to me.” The scent of lavender struck Vicente as Lucien stalked away towards the common room. One other time the man had returned to the Sanctuary with a vicious temperament and the same floral scent on his skin. Vicente couldn’t help but wonder what factor connected that time and this. 

Despite the amount of garlic permeating the atmosphere, Vicente could only bring himself to give Antionetta a stern berating instead of a verbal flaying. His mood had been, fortunately for Antionetta, buoyed by Lucien’s arrival. While the magnetic Speaker sat engulfed in paperwork at in a corner of the communal area, Vicente tried in vain to concentrate on the book held in his wavering grasp. _A Hypothetical Treachery_ was normally an engrossing play, but today his attention was elsewhere. Despite being sat in one of the comfiest chairs, the voluptuous cushions did little to ease the vampire’s fidgeting. Sighing for the umpteenth time, Vicente put all his effort into the adventurous narrative set in Valenwood. However, he couldn’t keep his eyes on the text, as it soon felt like a hole was about to be scorched through his novel. Lifting his crimson eyes above the parchment, he met the burning gaze staring at him. “Are you quite well, Vicente? You’re as jittery as a skooma addict.”  
“My apologies, Speaker. You know how irritable I get when Antionetta douses the Sanctuary in garlic. In Vvardenfell they have a saying about the restless, _’Kwama in your pants, s’wit?’_. But if I am troubling you, please say so and I will suffer elsewhere.”  
Lucien gave an amused snort before turning back to his work, “Only in Morrowind would there be an expression about a detestable insect in one’s trousers. Most of my experiences in that land have been hellish.”  
Vicente conceded his reading efforts for the evening, “Most of your experiences? Pray tell, what are the good experiences?” He was curious to know what had happened on the man’s last trip, from which he had returned in spectacularly quarrelsome spirits.  
“Mmm,” Lucien’s quill stilled, but he didn’t look up, “it was a holiday unlike any other. I paid a tax supposedly for Netch conservation – twice; ate guar cheese more ways than I can remember; slept far less than I needed; and got drawn into an elaborate marriage façade. Quite the vacation, really.”  
The small smile that played over Lucien’s face as he recounted his holiday didn’t pass by Vicente unnoticed. It was, regrettably, at that moment when Ocheeva arrived home.  
Collating his papers, Lucien excused himself and followed Ocheeva to her office. Vicente was left more curious by the end of the conversation than when it began. 

\--- ---

Far to the south, watching the shades of sunset swirl in the sky surrounding the White Gold Tower, Quenwe sat waiting for darkness. Lectures and tutorials would have finished at the Arcane University, and soon the campus would begin to quiet for the night. Despite having limped a slow journey from the Inn of Ill Omen, which took all day, Quenwe had not yet thought of what to do once she returned to the University. She would be expected to return with Linus, Gregorious and a finished research report. Her pack contained one of the aforementioned three. A weak plan, formulated through a haze of panic and pain, would see her leave the research report on Irlav Jarol’s desk before hastily saying goodbye to Raminus. The anxiety swirling in her didn’t want to say goodbye to Raminus, and especially not to the stray cat she’d taken in and left in his care. Mittens was a fluffy, self-entitled rapscallion, who perpetually shed hair, but Quenwe loved her. Brushing the grass off her rear and steeling herself, Quenwe set off towards the University, resolved to make the severance as quick, and painless as possible. 

It was a cloudless night, moonlight reflected off the steel gates and fastenings at the Arcane University entrance. Quenwe removed her hood as she strode down the stairs towards the solitary guard. “Good evening, conjurer. This humble Battlemage bids you welcome!” The whites of his teeth flashed beneath his blue hood as he spoke. Quenwe merely nodded as she passed him, locks of her dishevelled ashen hair falling loose as she did so. When Irlav wasn’t prancing around the Arch Mage’s Tower, he was in his 3rd floor office overlooking the alchemical garden. The ground floor of the Lustratorium would be unlocked, but it was unlikely both the 2nd and 3rd floors were as well, especially at this hour. Quenwe had reasoned (in her unstable mental haze) that breaking in to Irlav Jarol’s office in the dead of night, leaving the research report and absconding before dawn, was her best option. The other potential option was to leave the report in his pigeonhole in the main foyer of the Arch Mage’s Tower. The former option was more dangerous but involved (hopefully) no contact with anyone. While the latter was safer, it came with the risk of social interaction. If this were an ordinary night, in which Quenwe was hale and hearty, then the first option would be simple to accomplish. But this was no ordinary night and Quenwe was far from healthy, her body struggling with the task of even walking. It was late on a Fredas evening, surely the Tower foyer would be empty? She fished the wretched report out of her pack, determined to be rid of the cursed thing. It was resplendent with all manner of stains; blood; tears; and tea being predominant. The writing was a mixture of Linus’s sharp angles, Gregorius’ bold blocks and her own haphazard loops. At least the maps, diagrams and graphs were all neatly presented and largely stain free. A small surge of pride shot through Quenwe as she leafed through it one last time. It should have been the start of a promising academic career for all three of them. Life never went as promised or planned. 

The main door swung inward easily without protest or sound. Staff pigeonholes were located on the wall, almost immediately to the left of the main door. Ten steps or less were all that were required. The foyer was dim, floor standing candelabra providing the minimum light required for wizards to pass through at such a late hour. Shadows clung tightly to the cornices, but the foyer appeared unoccupied. After locating Irlav’s compartment among the mass of caliginous letters, Quewe paused to ponder how to fit the sheaf of paper through such a narrow opening. Halfway through tediously feeding the paper through, having to continuously pause to smooth down an errant rumple, a surprised voice cut through the gloom, “Quenwe? Is that you?”  
Startled and alarmed, she tried to spin around to face the source of the sound but her injured leg wasn’t as quick as the whipping torso. Time seemed to slow as the half-healed elf pitched backwards, overbalanced and tumbling towards further pain and despair. She had the forethought to let go of the report, precariously protruding from a slot. As the ground rushed towards her, she saw Raminus in her periphery, trying vainly to help in time. Dust was sent skyward as she landed in an ungraceful heap of limbs covered in an array in bruises. The pain of seeing Raminus was far greater than that of torn muscles, it was a pain that cut at chords set deep in the heart and mind. Warm hands gingerly lifted her into a sitting position, “Gods, Quenwe, the state of you. Are you badly hurt?” Raminus peered down at her, through the dimness and mote. With a smooth motion, a ball of bright light appeared above his head. Quenwe screwed her amber eyes shut against reality; ignorance was bliss. 

The summoned light did little to alleviate the worry spreading through his core, the tendrils of concern rendering all they touched numb. Below him, Quenwe was curled in on herself, loose sections of silver hair rippling with each sob. Raminus was gently massaging her shoulders, trying to coax her back to reality. Her clothes looked tattered, decorated with dark stains that made Raminus queasy. There was dirt smeared into the seams, except where the stitching was coming undone. When he eventually found one of her hands and pried it open, he was shocked at how fragile it felt. Normally neatly filed nails were instead cut brutally short or broken, a fine layer of what could only be blood coated her cuticles. Time spent in the south had given Quenwe a slight tan, her milky skin now kissed by honey. Despite this, the hand Raminus held was cold and frail. In his grasp, it trembled like a dead leaf in the wind. The ghost of a smile touched his lips when she gripped back. A true smile came to him when she unfurled momentarily, to rest her head on his shoulder. “Oh Raminus, I’m so sorry.” It was barely audible, the whisper brushing against his neck as she buried her wet face against his neck. He didn’t reply, the apology leaving him with a gnawing feeling. As he absently stroked her hair and back, his eyes drifted to the papers she had murdering into a slot before he’d startled her, “ _Stone Shadows: An Analysis of Ayleid Settlement in Southern Cyrodiil_ ,” Raminus read the title aloud, before angling Quenwe’s head back so she could see his beaming face, “It appears you’ve finished Jarol’s research contract? I was beginning to worry you were never coming back. We have missed you.”  
“We?” She was looking at him, yet her gaze seemed distant.  
“Mittens and I.” As Raminus watched her intently for a reaction, her face clouded. It was like watching fog roll in over a place you’d been a thousand times; familiar yet foreign. She pushed herself out of his grasp and returned to wrangling with the report. Her movements seemed strained and her gaze rigidly guarded, a stark contrast to the elf he had known before the research expedition. 

Forcing the report into the compartment was a chore that felt like eternity, but when it was complete, the reprieve from reality was dissolved. Raminus looked exactly like the day he’d introduced himself; laugh lines permanently etched into a surprisingly tan face for a mage; lips often lopsided grin that fought with his eyes for your attention; eyes like twilight in a forest, green and glinting; and it was all framed by waves of short, dark hair pushed carelessly back. It was not a visage you would normally associate with such a profession, but the typical, drab blue robes of the University tied it all together. “Goodnight, Raminus, and thank you – for everything.” She desperately wanted to go see Mittens, but the rising guilt desired a quick flight.  
He lunged for her hand, desperate, “Where are you going? Why does goodnight sound awfully like goodbye?”  
Quenwe didn’t know what to say, too full of guilt to even meet his eyes, “I’m moving to Cheydinhal. I’ll send for Mittens when I’m settled, if you like.” It came out in an instantly regrettable rush. Someone smarter would have told a lie.  
“What? Cheydinhal? Why?”  
“The climate is rather nice and Falcar is always in need of subordinates, since they keep vanishing. You can always come visit Mittens.” The hollowness rang in her ears.  
Raminus shifted closer to her, tucking her against him like an old book, “Come upstairs, come home and we can discuss it. It’s late and you look like you’ve been to Oblivion, and back.”

Like most of the masters, Raminus had private quarters above the rest of the campus. They were relatively spacious and well equipped, in an efficient sense. A wave of warmth greeted them as Raminus pushed open the door, followed by the press of a warm body against her shins. Quenwe burst free of the safety of Raminus’ side and fell to her knees beside the source of the feline greetings. “Oh, sweetie. I’m so sorry. I’ve missed you so much.” Running her fingers through Mitten’s soft, tabby coat, Quenwe noted how lustrous and well-cared for it was. Obviously Raminus had overcome his initial, albeit weak, protests about having a cat in his quarters. It was a pleasant surprise when her affections were returned, assuaging a fraction of guilt. She was oblivious to the sounds of Raminus moving around the room as she buried her head, softly, continuously, apologising. Breathing in the scents of animal and fresh laundry, Quenwe had begun to drift off when a hand on her shoulder brought forth panic. “It’s okay, it’s just me,” he began gently as the elf on his floor jerked upright, amber eyes wide and wild, “I’ve run you a bath and made fresh tea.”  
“Oh. Bath. Tea. Yes, tea sounds wonderful. But I should be going, I don’t want to impose.”  
He gripped her more firmly before she could rise, “Quenwe, hush. This is your home, remember?”  
“There’s a difference between being at home and feeling at home. Dwelling means more than shelter and square metres. This is your home, Raminus. But, I don’t think I’ve ever had one, merely flitting between abodes spreading melancholy and disappointment.” The emptiness in her tone set him back on his heels, but she continued before he could reply, “I don’t know what to say to you, Raminus. Thank you, doesn’t feel adequate, nor do my apologies. You’re one of the few good things to have happened in my life, but as always, I’ve tarnished everything. You can send my things to the Cheydinhal Guild, I suppose. Hopefully Falcar doesn’t threaten to drown me again, the castaway Altmer I am.”  
He didn’t release her, “Quenwe. Please. Just get in the bath and drink your tea. And no further protests. I have no idea what has happened, but we can talk tomorrow.” 

She fell asleep in the bath and Raminus had to wake her. Embarrassment bloomed on his cheeks as he gently shook her awake, eyes tactfully averted. They remained averted as he was forced to help her stand, the water having mellowed her strength but not her misery. When he ensconced her in his bed, she didn’t protest, not even when he climbed in behind her. Mittens spread nonchalantly on the pillows, purrs mingling with Raminus’ soft humming.

It was a relief when the whimpers ceased and her breathing finally evened out. Raminus remembered the first time he saw her, nearly a decade ago. Then, she was a potential initiate and he’d never had the opportunity to greet her. She’d been so young and radiant, unusually gifted for one barely out of childhood. The previous Arch-Mage had sent her and another on a quest to retrieve an artefact, providing the services of a sellsword in case of trouble. It was meant to be an initiation, of sorts. But something went wrong, and only rumours of the three companions returned, not the people themselves. It was clear was there had been a confrontation. Various sources alleged the sellsword had been arrested by the Imperial Legion, but none ever agreed on the reason why. The man had been deported on a prison ship, set for Morrowind and Raminus had been returning from his daily swim near the waterfront when he’d witnessed the commotion; a young elf screaming, being held back, as the ship departed. Then, just over half a year ago, she had returned. Still young and but lacking the radiance he’d observed so long ago. Arch-Mage Traven had welcomed her to the University, unaware of her previous admittance attempts. Quenwe had earnt the required recommendations from the Guildhalls, but it was her association with Falcar that had raised the eyebrows of many, including his own. There were many questions, but few answers. 

The best lies have an element of truth in them, or so it is said. Quenwe didn’t know if she believed it. She’d told Raminus the previous evening that she was moving to Cheydinhal, that much was the truth. She’d also said it was to help Falcar, implying that the whole shift was just Guild business, but both were lies. In the two hours she’d been awake, listening to Raminus breathe and Mittens snore, Quenwe had firmly decided she was a terrible person. It would have been more prudent to spend those hours concocting some explanations. Instead, those hours had been spent in pure, unabashed self-loathing and misery. As the warmth behind her began to stir, dozens of implausible excuses emerged in her mind. She should never have mentioned Falcar. Most merely tolerated him, unless they were Altmer, in which case, they accepted or reviled. Personally, Quenwe had no love for him; he was a dim link to her family, who had taken pity on her a handful of times. His pity always came with scorn, but he’d always provided for her when needed. 

The bed shifted as Raminus rose for the day, cursing when Mittens wove between his path. If she tried hard enough, Quenwe could imagine it was like any other past morning, veiled in nostalgia. Dragging herself out of bed was awkward, as was breakfast. Questions lingered on Raminus’ lips, unasked but heavy. She broached it first, barely able to breathe from the weight of anxiety, “I don’t know who my mother is or was, and I haven’t seen my father since I was 7. But Falcar knew him, distantly. He knew of my mother as well, or so he has said. Other than that, we aren’t close, but it is the closest familial link I have.” It was all truthful, so far.  
Raminus wore an unreadable expression as he listened and answered, “Thank you for sharing that with me, Quenwe. You have a Breton surname… Is your father a Breton?”  
“Yes, he was, or is. He was likely a terrible mistake on my mother’s part. She kept the pregnancy secret and gave me to Father immediately after birthing me. It’s a terrible thing to be born out of wedlock in Summerset, let alone to be a half-breed. We’re probably both lucky to be alive, her and I. But, anyway, that’s my short history.” She traced patterns on the wooden table as she spoke, a physical outlet to the inner turmoil.  
“So why are you leaving for Cheydinhal? You only just got back.”  
Quenwe sighed, the man felt like an endless void of questions, “It’s a nice town, especially after the humidity of the south. When Jarol pays me, I can buy a little house, it’ll be quaint and quiet.” It was a mistake mentioning the south, because it led to more questions.  
“How was your trip? I would’ve liked to read the report. And where are your companions? Did the shirk their responsibilities?” Raminus tried to give an encouraging smile, but it felt empty.  
“The trip was terrible. The report is finished. My companions are dead and well, oh, look at the time. I really should be going. Long walk and all.” She stood abruptly, knocking her chair over and bumping the table, coating it in tea.  
Raminus didn’t move, except to slowly blink and force air in and out of his lungs. He watched, as if caught in a dream, as Quenwe stuffed things in her muddied, torn pack. When the pressure in his chest lessened, he rose and went to her. “Quenwe, stop. Tell me what happened.”  
She didn’t stop, the need to try and control something, even as simple as packing, being too overwhelming. Raminus shook her shoulders, noted the tension, and repeated the request.  
“There are lots of trolls in those ruins. No one told us,” it wasn’t an outright lie, merely a statement of fact and a smarter person would’ve left it there, “they chased us out and down to the river. Linus lost his leg and Gregorius probably his head. It was gruesome. I fled over the water and never went back.” One small lie nestled amongst plenty of facts.  
Again, Raminus was silent while he tried to process the tale. “Do you know if they have family we can inform?”  
If she could have imploded, she would have. Instead, she pretended she was someone else, an outsider with the same knowledge she had but without the flood of emotions. “I think Linus was an orphan, but Gregorius was from a merchant family, from Anvil, or near there.” More innocuous facts.  
Raminus massaged her shoulders as he spoke, “I can deal with everything, don’t worry. This explains why you would want to move away from here though. The memories must be cloying.”  
It was a lifeline and Quenwe gripped it with both hands. “Yes, you’re right. I just want a fresh start.” The lifeline did little to alleviate the guilt, but it allowed her sympathy. 

Raminus helped her pack, promising to visit with Mittens as soon as he could. It only made her feel worse. In an ideal world, she wouldn’t leave. But this wasn’t an ideal world and she had four deaths weighing on her conscience, as well as an affair. It was Vaermina’s exhilaration, this continuous nightmare.


	9. A Cold, Familial Embrace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quenwe is welcomed to the family.

  
Towards the end of the month of Second Seed and the start of Mid Year.

Insectoid melodies pervaded the mid-morning atmosphere that was otherwise stiff from an impending farewell. It was nearing the end of the month and as Mid Year crept closer, so too did rising temperatures. Heat was radiating from the stonework of the Talos Bridge, which scuffed beneath Quenwe’s fretting boots. They looked out of place and ill at ease amongst the bustle of the Imperial City; Raminus in his robes; and she in long pants, long sleeves and cloak. But the walk to Cheydinhal was a long one and any exposed skin soon felt the bite of the sun. They were tarrying, taking far too long to cross the span of Lake Rumare. Neither was eager to take leave of the other, yet Quenwe was impatient in a sense, nearly overcome with nervous energy. She had told Raminus little else that morning than her feeble lies. It was an odd situation, to have practically cohabitated with a man whom you barely knew. It was an odd relationship, where the borders between student and lover had blurred irreparably, but there was no label for them. When she’d tentatively quizzed him in the past, Raminus had been reluctant to characterize. So, they kept all hidden, as best they could, but in the Arcane University, secrets rarely stayed buried for long. The rumours, accusations, pointed looks – they’d all contributed to her decision to venture south for over a month. If time could be reversed, Quenwe would choose gossip and whispers every time. 

When the abutments came within an arm’s reach, they paused, unable to continue a walk of avoidance any longer. “So…” began Raminus, electing to look anywhere but at Quenwe.  
“Raminus, first, thank you from the depths of my heart. I don’t know how we ended up where we did. Well, I do know. I could paraphrase it in a multitude of crass ways, but, in the simplest form, we were just two lonely people. Thank you for allowing me to share your loneliness and your home.” She stared at him as she spoke, noting how his mouth tugged either up or down depending on what she’d said. He tried to interject, but she continued, “Secondly, I apologize, from the depths of my worthless heart. I don’t know how to categorize or classify what we are. But whatever we are, I’m far from a perfect contributor. I’ve done terrible things, and not just in the distant past.” It wasn’t entirely silent when she finished talking, the buzz from nearby Weye just audible. Raminus was looking at her now, at the very least. The breeze whipped his hair around but the concern in his verdant eyes was palpable. A lack of immediate reply only served to increase her anxiety. She hurriedly continued what was quickly becoming a monologue, and if only villains monologued, then she may as well wear the mantle, “Anyway, I should stop tarrying. I’ll notify you when I’m settled. If you no longer wish to care for Mittens in the interim, please advise me as soon as possible. I wish you well, Raminus, and I hope you do find someone worthy of you.” She was mid-step, the first of a new journey, when he grabbed her upper arm with long fingers, strengthened from years of casting.  
“Take deep breaths and try to listen, I won’t let you start your journey in such a panic.” Raminus had pulled her back, resting his chin atop her head as he spoke. “Firstly, I should thank you. You were right, we were both two lonely souls trying to drift through life. Thank you for gracing me with your light. You see yourself as burden, but you’re far from it. Yes, there were pains in the beginning, but those little grins you’d shoot me when you’d done something mischievous, made it all worthwhile. Remember when you’d taken up all my robes by a span and replaced all my boring socks with bright ones? Entirely impish and entirely precious.” He paused to bury his face in her hair, committing the sensations to memory. Sunlight glinted off her ear piercings, startling Raminus momentarily. He noted a new gemstone stud in the left lobe, a small red stone blazed above a blue one, which now seemed dull. His consciousness fleetingly questioned it, but the pragmatic part of his brain filed the information away for later examination. “I’m reticent to label us because labels come with implications. I doubt you’ve done anything to deliberately dishonour my character, but if you think you have, then know that the last thing I’d want to do is cage you. You need to let the light in, wherever you can find it.” He spun her around at this point, gracing her with a cracked grin, “Besides, I’ve been married once and can’t say I’d want to do it again.” It was said with humour, but something missed the mark.  
“You’ve been married?” It was an effort to snap her jaw shut after asking.  
“Mhmm. See? It is possible to maintain a private life here, despite what you may think. Yes, I was married and now I’m recently divorced. She didn’t approve of academic life, or, more likely, she didn’t like the meagre salary that accompanies it. She claimed I didn’t spend enough time with the children, but the roles she’d rather I’d had spent more time away but came with larger purses.”  
She was openly gawking now, “You… You have children?”  
“Two daughters, Camilla and, Jena. Camilla is 8 and Jena is 10. They live in Skingrad with their Mother and her family. Trust her to pick one of the most expensive cities in which to raise them.” He bent and kissed Quenwe on the forehead, as she stood still gaping at him. “Now, my lithe conjurer, you’d best be on your way. Don’t forget to write and if you ever want to visit, you know I’ll always be here.”  
“I guess this is cheerio, for now.” She squeezed her arms around him in a desperate hug, feeling guiltier than ever. Spinning, she didn’t look back, not wanting him to see her wet cheeks.

\--- --- 

The breeze, which had initially been refreshing, soon became a hindrance as it whipped up dust from the road. Quenwe didn’t know why they’d parted where they did, a bridge in the complete opposite direction to the one she needed to take. At least it had granted them some privacy, away from the University of prying eyes, but it had added at least an extra day to her trip. It took her the better part of the first day to circle around the Red Ring Road, the walls of the Imperial City always in sight. There were plenty of people on the road and even more tending the fields beside the road. She kept her hood up, not wanting to risk getting burnt. Initially, the tattered wool provided an insulating barrier, but with the rising heat came sweat. The heat beat down like daedric fury and judging by the disoriented gaits of those passing by, Quenwe wasn’t alone in suffering. The sweat burnt her eyes, already raw from the dust and plastered her hair down where it contacted drenched skin. When one farmer, leading a mule and cartful of beets, stopped directly in her path, it was all she could do not to incinerate him and the root vegetables he was attempting to peddle. 

The walls of Cheydinhal came into view when the blue hues of the heavens turned russet. Irritable would be a mild descriptive for the diminutive Altmer who’d just passed through the western gate. The guards had let her in, regaled her with information and she had done her best to be sociable. Unfortunately, Quenwe’s standards regarding what constituted social niceties were at an all time low. Fortunately, Quenwe looked like a weary adventurer on the verge of heatstroke, which is to say, they let her through the gates without the usual ado. Leaving the Imperial City had been hard on the heart, but the journey had been hard on her body. The straps of her pack dug deep, but the constant discomfort was easier to manage than carrying the bag any other way. It held the pieces of a fragmented life; too many earrings and too few un-mended clothes. Even if she ignored the dampness of her armpits, there was no denying the fact she smelt like a sty and likely resembled one too. Quenwe pulled her hood down as she began to hesitantly wander into town, aware of the futility of the action. If Lucien and his merry band of murderers were in fact real and residing in this very location, then they would doubtless have spotted her by now. She didn’t know where to go and not for lack of direction. Part of her reasoned that she should go to the Mages Guild first, where there was no risk of assassination on entrance, or, very little risk, depending on Falcar’s mood. Another part reasoned that she should go straight to the Sanctuary beneath the abandoned house, where her new _family_ waited. Three days of walking and she hadn’t arrived at a decision. 

Flowing through town with endless grace, bordered by weeping willows, ran the Corbolo River. The water ran clear in the light, providing a view of the small, dark fish that skimmed over the large cobbles at the sandy base. As night drew closer, they rose to the surface, drawn by the insects now hovering lazily above. Quenwe didn’t know how long she’d been staring into the ripples and rivulets, but the allure of the river was undeniable. Nearby, the Great Chapel of Arkay soared, vaulted arches and spires reaching into the clouds. For all her loneliness, at least here, in this one city, she knew a few residents. There were two Altmer residing at the Chapel, Errandil and Ohtesse, and while she’d met them a few times, fraternising with them now seemed painful. Arkay was the embodiment of life and considering all that the deity represented, Quenwe felt wretched, forever tainted by the sin that coated her. Ideally, she would go to the Mages Guild and recuperate before venturing into the dark embrace of the Night Mother. Ideal situations were often unattainable. Falcar would be at Guild and she wasn’t up to arguing with him, yet. He took pleasure in quarrelling and Quenwe always took the bait. Turning away from the river and looping around the Chapel, the abandoned house came into sight. The darkness of the boarded windows visible even in the dusk. If these assassins were truly going to welcome her into their midst, then they could so while she was far from her best. Cleanliness could come after introductions. 

Against the evening sky, the abandoned house was a dim portrait of a bygone time. The peeling paint and boarded windows were sad silhouettes of a previous existence. Carefully clinging to the shadows, Quenwe completed a circuit of the building. The front door was the only readily apparent entrance, but it looked like it hadn’t been opened in years. Guards patrolled down the road in front of the house at regular intervals, chainmail greaves audibly announcing their presence before they came into sight. Despite their regular routine, not once did the guards spare a glance towards the abandoned house. If anything, they kept their eyes carefully averted. Quenwe smiled to herself, she’d heard Count Indarys was mercenary and she wouldn’t put it past the Dunmer to align himself with the Dark Brotherhood, especially if money was involved, or more likely, threats. Tiring of loitering in the shade, Quenwe stepped up to the door after the latest patrol moved past. Water stains covered the front door like bitter scars. Hesitantly, she touched a gloved hand to the door and jolted backwards when it swung inwards, reacting to the barest caress. With little alternative left, she entered the waiting gloom, her hesitant footfalls muffled by a thick layer of dust. The once grand entranceway now lay buried under generations of grime, showing no trace of any having gone before her. Cobwebs enshrouded the main staircase like a jilted bride, leading into the unknown. Staleness and mildew pervaded the air, sour tastes that clung to the back of your throat. Lucien hadn’t said where in the house the Sanctuary was, but the floorplan and desuetude suggested it was either upstairs or down in the basement, if there was one. The latter option seemed more plausible, but Quenwe shrugged her pack off and started up the stairs anyway. Stairs that would have once been glossy, now lay dull and creaked ominously under each footstep, threating to give way. Faded tapestries lingered on the walls, a mere heartbeat away from disintegration. Crates and splintered furniture decorated the upper floor, with a smaller, shabbier staircase leading up to a small loft. There was nothing of value or significance, nothing that told her anything useful of the previous or current inhabitants. Gliding downstairs, she shouldered her pack and scanned the ground floor again. A small door was set against the eastern wall and it too, opened as if by premonition. Here, as a stone staircase descended, the shadows grew thicker. Abruptly, the shadows dissipated when she came to the bottom, having carefully felt her way downwards. Lit candles set in sconces decorated the wooden wall studs, shedding a warmth that was not only visual. Basements were often humid, but the warmth here seemed to permeate right to one’s core. The wall immediately opposite the stairs had been knocked through, revealing a tunnel that glowed with a carmine blush. It was a welcome effect and simultaneously, a repulsive one. Part of Quenwe whispered that this could be home; another muttered that she’d just left a place that could’ve been home. The tunnel was magnetic, assaulting her with pushing and pulling sensations that dragged along the skin. All abruptly ceased at the end, where a beautifully carved door shone crimson on all who would behold it. The chiselling was magnificent, a rendering of what could only be Sithis watching over the Night Mother and her children. Although the sensations had quietened, noises that could only be akin to respiration and heartbeats echoed in the atmosphere and in the mind. It was eerily lovely, this dark depiction that captivated the observer. A large, steel handle hung invitingly on the right side of the door, it’s coiled steel waiting. Time was immeasurable, from the moment she laid eyes upon the black door until the moment she reached for the handle. Before the warm steel could meet warm flesh, a harsh, heavy voice sounded from everywhere and nowhere, “What is the colour of night?”  
Lucien had told her how to answer when asked, but she the question still caught her off guard. The deep, rasping voice reverberating in her skull long after the question had been posed. “Sanguine, my brother.” The answer escaped her lips as a whisper, but the reply was immediate.  
“Welcome home.”  
Silent as death, the door swung slowly inwards.

\--- --- 

In the past hour, the normally peaceful sanctuary had been whipped into a frenzy. Carefully reading any freshly arrived writs or news, Vicente had been enjoying the serenity of his office when a familiar voice drifted in from the corridor. The silken storm, rolling in like the type of thunder that gave you goose pimples, was the voice of Lucien Lachance, currently delivering some information of note to the other Brothers and Sisters. He ran his sharp fingers through his long mahogany hair, ensuring all was presentable. Standing, he smoothed down his dark shirt and pants before setting out to discover what welcome commotion had brought the Speaker back, only a handful of days after his last departure.

“We will have a new Sister joining the family tonight. I trust you will all be as welcoming as usual and, if you are M’Raaj-Dar, perhaps slightly more welcoming than usual.” Lucien finished his sentence by directing a smile towards the sulking Khajiiti mage leaning against the rear wall of the common room, much to the amusement of everyone gathered. Vicente entered the room just as the Speaker was finishing, granting him enough time to note the miniscule, but not unnoticeable, flashes of emotion pass over Lucien’s face as he spoke. It was a small flurry of coolness and warmth, further puzzling Vicente when he combined this evidence with Lucien’s odd behaviour over the past week, or the past half a year, really.  
“Oooh, Lucien!” Came the shrill squeal from Antoinetta Marie, much to everyone’s obvious annoyance, “Could we have a fancy dinner party? Or a feast? A celebration? Mathieu is visiting me tonight too!” The diminutive Breton’s hands were clasped together as she beamed imploringly at Lucien. Ever since she had joined the family, Antoinetta had been enamoured of Lucien, gazing longingly in whichever direction he had gone, long after the man himself had departed. Initially, it had amused the other family members, but the obvious pining soon grew to exasperate them. Vicente himself was particularly vexed, especially when he felt that same pining towards the same target.  
“Ugh, really Antionetta? Bellamont may as well be living here at the rate he seems to be visiting.” The furrow that grew between Lucien’s brows as he spoke reflected the entire family’s annoyance with Antionetta’s latest, secondary attraction. “But, very well. We may all welcome her with dinner – providing that you do not cook it.” The room burst into laughter once again as Antionetta’s face dropped at the decree. As the others hustled off towards the kitchen, speculating excitedly amongst themselves, Lucien gathered Ocheeva and Vicente to his side and guided them towards Vicente’s office. Vicente always felt an irrational surge of happiness whenever the Speaker graced his office with his presence, tonight was no different. Settling themselves in, Lucien wasted no time with preambles, “Our new Dark Sister has entered Cheydinhal this eve, although I know not if she will make directly for us or not, but I suspect she will make her way here before the night is old. Her name is Quenwe Luseph, she is an Altmer mage, although she has the body of a warrior.” Vicente couldn’t help the way his mouth twisted at Lucien’s final words. Somehow, it implied the knowledge was gained through intimate channels.  
“Does she merely have a warrior’s body or is she a warrior?” Vicente asked, a touch of venom dripping from his question.  
Lucien’s lips pursed before he answered, “I would say she is adept with blades, although perhaps rusty with them, Brother.” The final word was punctuated, a challenge hidden in the tone.  
Until this point Ocheeva had silently observed the interplay, only nodding her head when needed. Sensing the rising tension, she interjected, “Do not worry, Lucien, we will welcome her into the Night Mother’s cold, loving embrace.”  
Briefly, the Speaker graced her with one of his pure, warm smiles, before he continued with his instructions, “I have come to expect nothing less from you, Ocheeva, I do not know where I would be without you. Now, Vicente, you will handle her orders. Perhaps we should test her a little to begin with, see what she is capable of. Identify where her strengths and weaknesses lie.”  
“Yes, Speaker.” Was all Vicente could trust himself to say, fighting the foolish jealousy that was rising, unbidden and unwarranted inside of him.  
“Captain Tussaud of the Marie Elena is to be sent to a watery grave soon, perhaps that should be her first task?” Vicente watched Lucien tap at his cheek as he spoke, wondering if the glow that came to the man’s eyes when he discussed their newest family member was real or imagined.  
“Is that wise, Speaker?” asked Ocheeva. “I have heard it said that Tussaud and his sea vipers are vicious.”  
“It will be a good examination of her skills, Ocheeva. And, as you said, those pirates are vicious and their reputation precedes them, so she should have no qualms eliminating them.”  
“Is she still a youngling, Speaker? Is her heart not yet cold like ours?” The question came out as a hiss filled with curiosity from the Argonian.  
“She is quite young, even for an Altmer and there is still warmth in her heart. But I believe she will soon embrace Sithis, the Night Mother and us. You shall both be able to form your opinions soon and after, I expect reports on how she is settling in.” Vicente and Ocheeva nodded, soon falling into updating the Speaker on general news while they waited. 

\--- --- 

Delicious aromas and pleasant chatter were the first things that struck Quenwe as the door swung open. A cosy, comfortable subterranean dwelling filled with life wasn’t what she had been expecting. Further speculation was cut short by the almost instantaneous appearance of a female Argonian. She was dressed in dark leather armour secured by a multitude of straps. Her teeth were bared in a toothy smile that was friendly in a way only an Argonian could manage. “Greetings, Sister! Greetings! I am Ocheeva, mistress of this Sanctuary. Lucien has told me all about you. Welcome to the Dark Brotherhood. May this Sanctuary serve as your new home, a place of comfort and security whenever you need it. But my, how I’ve chattered on for too long! Go now, your new family is waiting to meet you. When you are ready, speak to Vicente Valtiere for work. He guides all our newest members and he will have some gifts for you. Now, my child, go and may Sithis go with you.” No sooner had Ocheeva finished her introduction and moved slightly to the side, before a blur of green rushed at Quenwe and engulfed her in a hug. She was too stunned to try and dodge and the pressure of his heavy, plated armour against her ribs nearly broke them.  
“Ocheeva told me not to but you’re just so small and cute I had to!” The large Orc said as he finally released her, chuckling as he did so. “Welcome! I’m Gogron and welcome to your new home! You know what they say – home is where you hang your enemies head!”  
“Gogron, get out of the way! It’s my turn!” Came a sharp, feminine tone from behind the Orc’s green bulk before Quenwe could get a word in. From under Gogron’s arm ducked a blonde head, straightening to reveal a small Breton woman, dressed similarly to Ocheeva. “Oh, I was going to hug you too but now that I see you, I think I won’t. I’m Antoinetta Marie, by the way.” Her nose wrinkled as she surveyed Quenwe from head to toe. 

Vicente observed from the shadows, curious as to how the newcomer would handle Antionetta’s scorn. He was also observing Lucien’s reaction to her, although the man was trying to give the impression of being too busy with paperwork to care. The way his face lit up when she had entered, and the way his eyes scarcely left her were things that hadn’t escaped Vicente’s notice. He had to admit, she was a beautiful little creature, all sharp lines and soft curls. If Lucien was attracted or attached, then he couldn’t blame him, for he saw and felt the appeal. 

“Hello everyone. Thank you for such a gracious welcome. You already know, but I’m Quenwe and I’m honoured to join your family. You have my eternal gratitude for accepting me.” She had barely finished when the door opened behind her, narrowly missing her backside.  
“Oh my, what have we here?” Came a crisp Breton accent; playful but with undertones of self-absorption. Before she could protest, she was again swiftly embraced and this time, kissed once on each cheek. It wasn’t a greeting that made her comfortable, something about the entire interaction sent a chill up her spine. “I’m Mathieu Bellamont, a pleasure and surprise – a pleasant surprise – to make your acquaintance. I had heard rumours there was to be a new member joining at Cheydinhal but didn’t think I’d be lucky enough to meet you so soon.”  
“Quenwe. Likewise, it is good to make your acquaintance.”  
Even from where he was, Vicente could hear the ice in her voice, and he grinned. Antoinetta had crossed her arms and was likely glaring holes through both newcomer’s skulls, while to his side, Lucien was openly scowling at Bellamont. Perhaps Quenwe would be a welcome addition to the family after all. Even if not, things were sure to be interesting. 

Quenwe need not have worried about excusing herself from the presence of Mathieu Bellamont, as Antoinetta practically flung herself at the man as soon as he released Quenwe. Pardoning herself, she moved further into the Sanctuary. Rich tapestries graced the walls, embroidered in shades of scarlet they were not utterly macabre. The expected Black Hand was present, but so were others of interwoven floral patterns, co-ordinating with the plush, circular carpets laid on the floor. Following the gaze of the others, she found herself staring at a tall man with piercing red eyes. She stepped closer to him, curious when he didn’t move towards her. In the darkened common room where shadows danced, the paleness of the man’s skin contrasted sharply with his entirely black ensemble. Smooth and flawless skin stretched over the sharp angles of his face, a pale serrated landscape grazed by wisps of long sorrel hair tied carefully back. It was his eyes that struck her though, sharp, faceted rubies that tracked her every twitch and breath. They alerted her to his condition before he could open his mouth and bare the ivory fangs that dwelt there. She continued to move closer, watching his eyes for a reaction. He didn’t smell as expected; no scents of oxidising blood or damp earth. Instead, it reminded Quenwe of spending winter before a fireplace; pine mingling with a spice, like nutmeg; warm and intoxicating. “A pleasure to meet you, Brother,” she began, extending her hand, “I’m Quenwe.”  
It was a soft voice that trickled into your consciousness like a creek in the forest, but it had the lilting, musical quality inherent to all elves. It was her scent that rattled him, the mixture of lavender and bergamot that was so soothing. He had smelt it before. He had smelt it on another before and now some pieces began to fall into place. She gazed up at him, nearly a head taller than herself, with bright, guarded eyes. He gripped her small hand in his cold one, “I believe the pleasure is all mine. I am Vicente Valtieri, please do not let my appearance unnerve you.” He moved a hand to her elbow, “Now, please follow me, I will give you a tour and introduction. But I assure you, it will be brief, you may soon freshen up before dinner.”  
His hand was cold and firm, uncannily like the grave she thought with an inward chuckle. Something caught the edge of Quenwe’s eye, and she turned in the opposite direction to the one he was trying to guide her in. It was a sight she had been dreading and longing for, Lucien Lachance, watching her with an unreadable expression. Vicente didn’t move from beside her, remaining still as Lucien approached without a whisper. It seemed as if all observing waited with bated breath. Amber eyes met deep brown and neither blinked. “Quenwe.” Lucien’s tone was neutral, devoid of inflections.  
“Lucien.” She mimicked him.  
“So, do tell, when is the wedding? I hope there’s no bastard growing inside you.” He had chosen to take the offensive, a balm for his wounded pride.  
What was a carefully smooth veneer instantly cracked, “I beg your pardon?” It was a hiss.  
“At the Inn, what was his name? The guard, Dan? Darren? Ah, no, Darrius, the Imperial Forester. Could he shoot himself as well as he shot that bow? He did really appear to enjoy teaching you to shoot it too, little one.” He looked cruel in that moment, lips pressed thin.  
In a swift movement, she had shrugged her pack off and stepped forwards, almost pressed against the man who taunted her. She held a hand up before his face and bit her lip, “Speaker, you sound almost jealous. Would you like a taste? Sometimes, it clings to your cuticles and you scrub, and scrub, but the memory always remains. Words can’t describe it, the way the knife went in. You were right, Lucien, the blade thirsted for blood.”  
The other Sanctuary members had drifted out, hearing the voice of their Speaker and all present stood transfixed by the scene before them. None knew how to decipher what they had just witnessed. Vicente didn’t just witness the scene, he felt it. Two heartbeats, their pulse increasing, straining with each beat. Heat, building up between antagonists, neither willing to concede. The smell of anger and desire swept over him like a wave, suffocating in its intensity.  
Quenwe snapped away from Lucien before the threat of succumbing to him grew too great. “Lead on, Vicente.” She said crisply.  
Vicente could only nod and move ahead of her, far too aware of the brown eyes piercing his back, of the turbulent second-hand emotions dancing on his skin. He’d been correct, there was something there, between Murderer and Speaker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and thank you, if you're reading this. This chapter was so much easier to write than the last, it just flowed much better. And, we're finally beginning to meet the family! It's been a while since I've played the questline and I've got a terrible memory, so some details are largely free hand. I didn't expect to get this far but wowee, things are spiraling out of control and it's grown quite a bit. But, oh well, it's a fun ride. Apologies, as always, for any mistakes (grammatical or otherwise). I did actually proofread this chapter (a little) though!


	10. A Soul, Seduced by the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner with the Family isn't always a straightforward affair.

Lucien watched her walk away, the deliberate sway of her hips visible even under the cloak. If she was doing it to torment him, it was working. Vicente was carrying her things yet kept his free hand on her elbow as he began the tour and Lucien was sure she tolerated this only to further anguish him. When they rounded the corner, he was left to try and compose himself, aware of the many eyes upon him. That composure nearly broke when he was clapped on the shoulder, “Well, Lachance, seems like you might have your hands full there. Although, I must say I envy you, a handful of that doesn’t seem like such a bad thing.” Bellamont ended with a lascivious wink and grin, oblivious to the fact he was now the object of Lucien’s ire.  
“Let this be a warning to you, Bellamont, touch me ever again and you’ll rue it.” He turned and stalked back to his armchair, immersing himself, to all outside observers, in paperwork. 

Despite the chill seeping through, Vicente’s guiding hand on her arm wasn’t uncomfortable. Her leg was beginning to ache, and he provided a sense of stability. Inwardly, she was also rattled by what Lucien had said. She hadn’t meant to hurt Darius, let alone kill him; now he plagued her mind day and night. The tour was a distraction she tried hard to focus on. There were male and female sleeping quarters set beside each other with large scarlet drapes providing privacy around the surprisingly large double beds. There were two empty beds in the female quarters, but Vicente warned her, in an exasperated tone, that if Mathieu was _visiting_ Antoinetta, then she would be welcome to take a bed in the male quarters or find one of the many couches around the Sanctuary. She placed her things on the bed furthest from the door before Vicente led her back out to the hallway. There were bathing facilities adjacent to the sleeping quarters and for her weary body, they were the most exciting feature so far. Vicente and Ocheeva had private quarters and offices beside the communal ones. Opposite these was another columned common room with a shrine to the Night Mother at the far end. Red candles cast a glow over the statue of a hooded woman, standing with arms outspread. 

After their brief tour, Vicente led her back to his office; a large room with bookcases against every wall. It was tidy and calm, with a desk surrounded by chairs in the middle of the room. There was no lush bed though, just a stone slab against one wall with a neatly folded blanket and a stack of pillows. Vicente caught her line of sight, “Believe me, I’ve slept in more uncomfortable places. But even in undeath, it remains hard to find the right pillow.” He found her easy to talk to, even if it was one-sided. She had been quiet the entire tour, only stopping to occasionally ask small questions. Vicente moved to his desk and retrieved a large, wrapped package from underneath it. “These are a gift from your new family,” sitting the package before her on the desk, he continued as she began to unwrap it, “It is a unique set of armour, lighter than normal leather and black as the Void. We can make alterations if it does not fit; it takes a while for most to find a fit that is both comfortable and practical.” As he spoke, he watched her face light up as she inspected the armour.  
“Thank you, Vicente. It’s beautiful.” She beamed up at him, the warmth of her smile beginning to infect him. The armour had a multitude of buckles crisscrossing across the entire ensemble. She undid them as she inspected it, noting the places where things could be attached. Eager to try it on, Quenwe undid the clasp on her cloak and slipped it off, folding it over the back of a chair. Next, she pulled her gauntlets and sword belt off, which only held the blade Lucien gave her, and another small dagger. Before Vicente could begin to panic at her unseemly actions, she undid the buckles on the new armour and slid her arms into the cuirass over the top of her shirt. It fit like a glove.  
“I see the Speaker’s precise measurements were indeed accurate.” It was stating the obvious, but he didn’t know what else to say. She was clearly as stunned as he, but he doubted she shared the twisting feeling in his gut. He watched her brows knit and eyes narrow as she considered the perfect length of the sleeves, and shoulder width. Vicente turned around, providing her with privacy, “You seem very eager, you may try the rest on now if you so wish. And, do not worry, above all, we are respectful of our Brothers and Sisters here.”  
“Oh, no. I’m sorry, Vicente. Please, continue with inducting me. This can wait.”  
He didn’t reply, merely raised a hand and waived her concerns away.  
Quenwe sighed and began stripping off, her hesitations overcome by a sense of violation. What would everyone think, when her armour fit perfectly the first time, right down to the inseam of the greaves? _Even the boots fit perfectly_ , she thought when she was done dressing, marvelling at the way her body felt encased in the cool, enchanted leather. “It fits perfectly, Vicente,” her small voice nearly cracking as the vampire slowly turned around, “even the boots fit my narrow feet.”  
It was the moisture gathering in her eyes that first drew his attention, anxiety causing her pupils to shrink until they were nearly encased in amber. He moved around to her side of the desk, noting that she was right, the armour had moulded to her like it was tailor made. It clung to her narrow waist and skimmed out for her hips. “Well, Lucien has always had an eye for detail, but I think this might be the first time that he’s gotten everything perfect.” He knew it was the wrong thing to say when he saw horror cross her face.  
“Can we get it altered anyway? Or say it needs altering? Oh, what will they think? Antoinetta already doesn’t like me and the others won’t be far behind. I should just lea-”  
Vicente ended what was quickly devolving into a panicked rant, putting his hands on her shoulders and crouching until they were at eye level. “Quenwe, stop. No one will think anything of it. If anything, they will only think of how efficient their Speaker is. No one dislikes you, either. We are all Family here. Now, I’ll quickly tell you of your duties and responsibilities here, then you can go bathe, and rest before dinner.” He continued to hold her shoulders, gently massaging them until he could sense the tension draining and her heartbeat slowing. 

She sat and listened as Vicente explained how the intricacies of the Dark Brotherhood to her. “Sithis is the Dread Father, he is darkness and time immemorial. He dwells not in Oblivion and is no Daedra; he is the Void. The Night Mother is the wife of Sithis and she speaks only to one member of the Dark Brotherhood – to the Listener of the Black Hand. We have other Sanctuaries, as you may have guessed from Mathieu’s arrival tonight, for he is not one of our Sanctuary. We have four other Sanctuaries in Cyrodiil, to be exact. Five fingers form a Black Hand and each finger is a Speaker who leads a Sanctuary. To employ our services, one performs a ritual to the Night Mother; the Black Sacrament. The Night Mother informs the Listener and after the ritual, the performer is contacted by a Speaker. Gold is exchanged, details worked out and that is where we come into the picture.”  
“Thus, the Speaker brings writs to us for completion?”  
It was an innocuous question, but her usage of _writ_ had surprised him.  
Sensing she had erred, she rephrased, “Contracts, I meant. The Speaker composes a contract for us to fulfil. Correct?”  
“Yes. Contracts are fulfilled by an assassin, such as yourself and sometimes, if certain parameters are met, you may earn a bonus.” Vicente paused while he digested her slip. He’d been relieved of his mortal coil in Morrowind and he knew very well what group completed writs. “Now, how do you feel about pirates?” Hopefully, the change in conversation would bring about a change in mood.  
“How do I feel about pirates? Hopefully this pertains to the target and I don’t have to become one.” She said, slowly.  
Vicente gave her a smile, “You can become one or not, it doesn’t matter as long as you kill one. The captain, in fact. On his ship, surrounded by his crew. Interested?”  
“I’m not sure I have any say in the matter, so yes.”  
“You’ll always have a say here, young one, remember that.”  
With that, he launched into the details of her first contract. 

\--- --- 

Vicente sat and pondered long after he’d sent Quenwe to rest, assuring her he wouldn’t let her miss dinner. She’d been attentive but detached during her induction, taking in the details but saying very little. Small displays of her inner turmoil had slipped through a cracking veneer and he had been quick to note them. The heated interaction with Lucien followed by the sudden withdrawal; the anxiety over how she be perceived and received by the others followed, again, by withdrawal into herself. He couldn’t help but wonder whether Lucien was to blame for Quenwe’s disassociations? Her aloofness had to be a coping mechanism to manage some trauma. He exhaled heavily and looked to the clock on his wall, it had been over an hour since she’d left to rest, dinner would be soon. 

\--- --- 

“Quenwe? Are you here?” Vicente called, standing outside the curtain surrounding the bed she’d claimed as her own. When no answer came, he pushed the curtain apart and hesitantly looked in. She looked like a different person, no longer caked in mud. Long, silver hair cascaded down her back in damp ringlets as she sat cross-legged on the bed, facing away from him. It was only when he called her name again did she turn around, apparently hearing him for the first time. Her pale golden skin was clean and clear, free of dust. She was barefoot, wearing a light grey shirt that dwarfed her, tucked into tight green pants that had obviously seen better days. “Oh, Vicente, hello. Sorry, you must think me a terrible mess.” Fixated, she scratched at stains that marred the thighs of her trousers, failing to impact the blood that was now ingrained in the fabric.  
He gave her what he hoped was a gentle smile, “I don’t think you’ll find a Brother or Sister here who hasn’t faced the same challenge you are now, it comes with the business.”  
“Will dinner be a casual affair? I packed only what I could carry, and it seems that equalled 7 socks and 2 and ¾ outfits. It’s tragic, really.” Her mouth curved into a smile full of self-mockery, revealing dimpled cheeks.  
Vicente returned her smile, relieved when she didn’t flinch at the sight of his fangs. “No, child, dinner won’t be a lavish affair. Even if you wore a hessian sack, we’d welcome you. We’re not a vain family, well… Most of the Family aren’t. Now, are you ready?”  
Sliding to the end, Quenwe leant over and opened the wooden chest set at the foot of the bed. While she’d unpacked, it appeared haphazard, the efforts of someone trying to control chaos. Vicente saw that she hadn’t exaggerated; there were 6 pairs and 1 odd sock in the chest, all colourful and most mismatched. She pulled on a pair of canary yellow bed socks that looked like they’d been made for someone with much larger feet. As she did so, Vicente was provided with a view of small, pink painted toenails. Despite initial appearances, she was obviously someone who made an effort to maintain their appearance. The thick cable-knitting of Quenwe’s socks poked above her new boots. Vicente fought to keep a blank face as he mentally associated the clothing combination with a Dragon’s Tongue flower. “Right. Dinner. Shall we?” Quenwe asked, gliding to her feet, or at least, she tried to. As soon as she pushed upright, her left leg wilted, and she pitched forwards. Unfortunately, Vicente was standing in that direction and the consequences of Quenwe’s sudden, uncontrollable momentum no longer solely impacted her. With swift vampiric strength, Vicente knelt and caught the elf who was falling with a resigned look, as if this was a regular occurrence. At least she didn’t weigh much, Vicente thought, wondering how different it would be if Gogron fell on him. Before he had even steadied her, she was trying to propel herself backwards, the bloom of embarrassment spreading from her cheeks down past her neck. Blushing was such an odd human reaction, an outward signal for an emotion one would rather hide. The scent that came with the rush of blood to the face, was however, an olfactory delight for the vampire. “I’m terribly sorry! Please forgive me. I keep making such wonderful impressions.” Dolefully staring at the floor and trying to shake off his stabilisation, she didn’t look at him as she spoke.  
“Now, now, Quenwe. Don’t be so disparaging. I’m sure you don’t **always** embarrass yourself in front of people you’ve just met?” The deep, amused voice came from a figure leaning leisurely against the end of the neighbouring bed.  
Quenwe and Vicente whipped their heads to stare at Lucien, both sharing the same horrified expression, but for differing reasons. Vicente removed his hands from the small waist in front of him as if shocked and Quenwe resolutely jammed her leg beneath her. “I can’t recall embarrassing myself at our first meeting, Speaker.” It was a sudden change, from downcast to defiant.  
Lucien gave a small huff of amusement as his eyes flicked to follow the retraction of Vicente’s hands. “That remains a matter of debate. Now, we should be going if we want dinner. Although, I wasn’t informed it was an alchemical costume event. Are you aware of how utterly garish your choice in socks is?”  
“Would you like me to lend you some, Speaker? Perhaps then you wouldn’t be so drab and dreary?” Quenwe teased Lucien as she limped past him, unaware that Vicente was holding his breath at the conversation.  
Lucien followed, his movements loose and relaxed. “Thank you for the offer, but you may keep your ostentatiousness.”  
Vicente was slightly stunned by their banter, which was still flowing as they exited the room in front of him. He was positive he hadn’t met two more capricious individuals in all his long life, and he worried what the implications of this were. 

\--- --- 

The kitchen was brightly lit with light and laughter when the trio arrived. It was one of those rare times when all the Cheydinhal family were present and not out fulfilling contracts. Quenwe hadn’t expected to see so many people and took an inadvertent step back when they all turned to look at the new arrivals to the kitchen. Her back met the strong panes of Lucien’s chest and he put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Calm, little one.” He murmured into the shell of her ear. Behind them, Vicente tensed, his sensitive hearing picking up the whisper meant only for two.  
“Hello and warm welcome, Sister! I’m Teinaava, Ocheeva’s twin brother.” A lean Argonian had clasped her right forearm with both of his gloved hands and was shaking it vigorously, “I love your socks; you’ll need more like them when winter arrives. I won’t keep gnawing your ear any longer, come walk in the Shadow of Sithis and meet the rest of the Family.”  
He wore an easy smile and the warmth of his personality was infectious. “Thank you, Brother. I’m glad someone likes my socks.”  
“Who doesn’t like your socks? I’ll crush their skull!” Gogron had shouldered his way to tower in front of Quenwe, the white apron tied around his waist not detracting from his ferocity in the slightest.  
“Whoever decides to mention those abominable socks again will spend the next week soaking blood out of their own.” Lucien stated the warning as he slipped past Quenwe, his hand running across her back as he did so. A gratifying shudder followed in the wake of his fingers.  
“Aw, c’mon boss. Don’t you think they’re cute?” Gogron protested as he returned to threading vegetables onto skewers.  
“Oh, Gogron, we all know what you do to cute things, you brute.” The unmistakable high-pitched voice of a Wood Elf pierced the room but Quenwe couldn’t identify the source.  
She began to follow Lucien into the large kitchen, where a formal dining table was bedecked with mismatched finery. A small figure stepped out from behind Gogron’s bulk, hand extended in greeting, as she neared. Barely reaching 5’ in height, the Bosmer wore an apron identical to Gogron’s, save it was smeared with fresh blood. The ferrous smell assaulted Quenwe and she recoiled, stumbling over Vicente’s foot in retreat. A strong, icy hand gripped her elbow before she could fall. It was becoming a familiar feeling, having the vampire halt her descents. “You,” small teeth bit the word off as the Bosmer fought to reign in her vitriol, “When they said Lucien had recruited an Altmer, I never guessed it would be the same clumsy one that stumbled into my path in Leyawiin.”  
“When I heard that discordant trill, I didn’t realise it would turn out to be the same venomous Bosmer who attacked me in Leyawiin.” Quenwe was still irritated by the event, particularly by the rip that the other elf’s quiver had left in her cloak when they’d become tangled.  
The smaller elf stepped forward, closing the gap between them. “Maybe if I break your nose, you might be able to see past it.”  
“Such a warm welcome, Sister. I never would have expected anything less from you.” Quenwe hoped the sarcasm would interrupt the brewing altercation. She’d read the tenets and having come this far, she wasn’t going to break them.  
“Hey now, Tel, come back and help me. You gotta cook that meat yet.” Gogron was right behind the Bosmer, his hands on her shoulders trying to keep her in place.  
“Why should I cook for such a snobby, ungrateful bit–” Her sentence was cut off as Lucien physically positioned himself between her and Quenwe.  
There was no heat in his voice as he spoke, but his chagrin burnt all who heard, “Not. Another. Word - both of you. Whatever problem you two may have had is in the past, and as Speaker for this Sanctuary, that is where I expect it to remain. If you cannot be civil to each other, then refrain from speaking. Act like this again and there will be consequences. Am I understood?” Lucien looked to Telaendril as he spoke, the flaring of his nostrils leaving no uncertainty as to his mood.  
Both elves answered him in unison, “Yes, Speaker.”  
The flare of Lucien’s anger seared Quenwe. The shame sat, smouldering in her chest and the more she tried to ignore it, the further it burnt upwards. Her face felt like it was ablaze as tears threatened to spill out. Remorse stabbed her lungs, each breath coming as a quick jab. Vicente hadn’t released her elbow and the contact felt like a vice of guilt despite the comfort it provided. Quenwe shifted closer to him, all too aware of the many staring eyes. Like a rusted cog, Vicente suddenly jerked forward, taking her along with him. 

The formal dining table dominated the large kitchen. An embroidered red cloth ran gracefully down the centre of the mahogany top, providing a soft base for two ornate silver candelabra. Redware, limeware, bronze and even Dwemer serving ware was eclectically set, but the oddity of it suggested there was a personal tale to every piece. The table was set for 10 but as she scanned the room, Quenwe could only see 8 others. Vicente stopped at the middle of the table and pulled a chair out for her, but the centre of the table was a centre of attention. Darting behind him with all the grace she could manage, Quenwe slid into a chair second from the end. It was close enough to the centre as to not be outright rude and far enough away from the focal point. Or so the irrational part of her, which had assumed dominance, reasoned. Vicente exhaled through his nose and was about to sit on her left, at the end of the table, when Bellamont casually draped himself into the chair. The vampire’s already angular face took on a new edge as he sat to the right of Quenwe, but however pinched his expression may have been, it didn’t come close to matching Antionetta’s stormy visage. “You’re being very welcoming, Mathieu,” came the clipped tones as she stuck her head directly between the two she was addressing, snapping her scowl from one to the other, “I do hope you make sure she knows her place here.” She sniffed as she straightened, before making a final jab, “At least she doesn’t smell _quite_ so bad now.”  
Mathieu laughed and tried to placate his lover, who had sat opposite him and was resolutely staring at the Altmer to his right. His efforts at joviality were ignored by Quenwe who was trying to make herself as small as possible, hoping to disappear. 

The quarter hour until dinner was served was agony endured in a mire of floundering conversation. Regret crawled over her like ants to honey; the residue clung and no amount of fidgeting could displace it. Lucien was conspicuously absent the entire time, his removal from the situation was a guilty ache that clung with barbed tendrils to the horde of guilt weighing firmly upon her conscience. Bellamont chattered away, either oblivious or indifferent to the stonewall Quenwe was trying to build. When he said something he found particularly becoming, his leg would graze hers and it always came as a shock. Startled, Quenwe would continually jerk away, which would cause her to bump sharply into Vicente. Initially, the vampire tilted his head at her contact, but his keen senses soon found a pattern and traced the action to its origin. The past month had been a whirlwind for Quenwe, and for her part, she was unsure if Mathieu was being over-friendly or if recent events had made her biased. 

Fragments of the night coalesced into a string of events that unfurled from one another at an alarming pace. The apprehension and dismay coursing through Quenwe spiked, causing the mind, and body to separate. She became a spectre, watching through a disassociated lens, each perceived calamity phase into another. 

Mathieu now had his knee and lower leg pressed fully against hers, despite Quenwe having shifted slowly towards Vicente. The three now seemed to be joined, leaving her with no room to flee. Bellamont was exalting the virtues of port and lamenting how difficult it was to acquire a good vintage in Cyrodiil. His wide, brown eyes, which rarely left her direction, straddled the line between enthusiastic and maniacal. Noticing Bellamont’s unwavering attention to the newest family member, Vicente felt an uncharacteristic surge of anger. Despite her oft childish attitude, Antoinetta was a loyal daughter of Sithis and she deserved better than the fickle attention Bellamont showed her. In one fluid movement, he wrapped a glacial arm behind Quenwe and shifted so his chest was flush against her shoulder. Surprisingly, she didn’t flinch as expected but instead moved towards him, seeking the shield he was offering. Vicente smirked at Bellamont over the silver head trapped between them, pleased with the annoyance flashing in the other Breton’s eyes. Bellamont’s frustration, however, was nothing compared to the quiet fury of Lucien Lachance as he entered from the adjoining training room with M’Raaj Dar. The Speaker held a large bottle of Cyrodiilic Brandy by the neck, the calm smile frozen on his face was at war with the rage in his eyes. “How cozy. I’m loath to interrupt such intimacy.” The final word and ensuing silence were frigid until they were violently shattered when the bottle of liquor he held exploded into a thousand knives. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought this was going to be a relatively short chapter - I was wrong. And we haven't even gotten to dinner yet!  
> There are a lot of Family members and I wanted to try and flesh them, and Quenwe, out more. Thus, Vicente's (and Lucien's, to a lesser extent) POV is explored - something I'd like to do more of. But, I also wanted to try and instill a little humour and, of course, drama. Because what family gathering is complete without awkward humour and drama?  
> Quenwe is struggling and I wanted to attempt to show how serious the psychological impacts of grief and trauma, and traumatic grief are. So, apologies if it got a little too emotional or heavy on description.  
> Suggestions and comments are always welcome, thank you for reading.


	11. Dining With Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner is served.

  
It was the sudden pain lancing through his palm that snapped Lucien back to his present surroundings. After the argument between Quenwe and Telaendril, he had gone to find something to soothe everyone’s nerves. In the process, he’d located M’Raaj Dar and the Khajiit’s braying laugh now reverberated through the otherwise silent dining room. The hot scent of brandy, heady with fruit and oak, clung to his robes and pooled on the floor. Quenwe had half-risen and looked ready to vault the table towards him, but for the vampiric limb resting firmly around her shoulders. With barely an effort, Lucien released a healing spell and focused the renewing warmth on the gashes across his hand. Vicente was staring imploringly at him and when he made eye contact, Lucien found he couldn’t break it. The vampire’s maroon irides flickered slowly to the left and one long finger rose from Quenwe’s small shoulder to point at the man sitting beside her. Lucien allowed his gaze to follow Vicente’s odd indications and saw Bellamont lounging, with his arms akimbo and body facing Quenwe. The initial leer on the man’s face had largely disappeared, replaced with cold calculation as he slid his eyes shrewdly between Quenwe and Lucien. Fighting down the ice that clawed up his spine, Lucien forced his face into a grinning mask, “Apologies everyone, it seems I needed that drink more than I realised,” he held up the remaining bottle in his right hand as he continued, “At least one survived my urgency.”   
Gogron was the first to burst into laughter, “Don’t worry, Speaker, you’re not the only brute here! Ya know I once had a bunny I petted to death.” Soon, nearly the entire Sanctuary was chuckling, the atmosphere gradually lightening. 

With feline grace, Lucien lowered himself into the seat beside Antoinetta, directly across from Quenwe and sat the surviving bottle of Cyrodiilic brandy on the table. He poured a glass for Quenwe without asking and she sat entranced by the reflections, the amber liquid dancing in the candlelight. Without a word, Vicente removed his arm from around her and conversation continued as normal. The presence of the Speaker had subdued Bellamont, whose leg now only occasionally grazed hers. On the journey to Cheydinhal, Quenwe had hypothesised countless scenarios in which things had gone terribly wrong or she had embarrassed herself. They now all seemed to be playing out and she sat, a spectator to her own shame, unable or unwilling to participate any further lest things deteriorated even more. The others had raised their glasses and were toasting, she extended a leaden arm and mimicked them, but when they sipped the brandy, she downed it in one swallow, relishing the burn. 

He watched her vacant eyes, swirling amber depths much like the tumbler of brandy she had just drunk in one perfunctory movement. She sat slumped, narrow shoulders drawn inwards as if to protect herself. The dining table wasn’t overly wide and so Lucien didn’t have to stretch too conspicuously to kick her in the shin. It had an instantaneous effect, as she straightened and frowned at him. The fire of her questioning ire spread through him and he realised, with a small jolt, that he found her mercuriality endearing. He continued to stare at her while he joined in Antionetta’s chirping about foreign foods, “Do you remember last year when I went to Morrowind? I stayed in a rickety Inn, infested with prejudice and probably louse, but the guar cheese I tried there made up for all the shortcomings of the trip. That, and not _everyone_ there was completely xenophobic towards me, which was pleasant.” Quenwe seemed grasp his intent, pink flushing up her neck, as Antoinetta latched onto the topic.   
“Was their cheese spicy? All of their food is so spicy, I’ve heard the cooks in the Castle here complaining that Indarys constantly sends dishes back for being too bland.”   
“Safer to stick with garlic, right Antoinetta?” Quenwe adopted a slight tease to her tone, pairing it with an open smile that felt like it would break under the falseness.   
Vicente snorted and Lucien gave her a small nod, as Antoinetta took the teasing in good humour. “It’s only Vicente who doesn’t like garlic here and I’m not surprised, his taste buds are probably as dead as his body.”   
Quenwe laughed openly at that, her cheeks dimpling as she elbowed Vicente who only scowled at both women. It was a sound Lucien thought he could never tire of, like songbirds in the forest in summer. 

Dinner was soon served, the eclectic combination of Gogron’s and Telaendril’s efforts. Gogron had, in his own words, “Lightly seared a medley of fresh vegetables and tossed them in a light vinaigrette”. While Telaendril had presented venison steaks, freshly butchered and, if judging from the juices surrounding them, served very rare. Quenwe hadn’t eaten meat since her foster family had forced her to butcher their milking goat when she got too old, and the sight of the bloody fillets nearly made her retch. It was unfortunate, to say the least, as she had wanted to bury the animosity between herself and Telaendril. With a deep breath, she secured the façade she was presenting and reached over to grab the smallest cut of meat from the bloody pile as it was passed down the table. She ate the vegetables first, quickly, before the juices slowly seeping from the meat could pool around them and before the remnants of her appetite could truly perish. The next part was trickier. Not eating the meat would doubtlessly be construed as a personal attack by Telaendril, but the longer she started at the flesh, the more her stomach turned. Quenwe hadn’t eaten red meat in over a decade and even if her body didn’t revolt, her mind surely would. On either side of her, neither Vicente or Mathieu seemed to be suffering her predicament and sidelong glances showed the same for everyone else. The mask felt like it was slipping, and she didn’t dare look to the opposite side of the table, feeling that Lucien’s stare had not eased. She felt like a failure, trapped in a nightmare where the fall was continuous, and you never jolted awake. 

Lucien had manoeuvred for the piece of meat that was the most well-cooked, which wasn’t really saying much, considering how lukewarm and soft it was. Like Quenwe, he ate the vegetables first, but unlike her, he was no longer surprised by how good Gogron’s cooking was. He watched the curious elf across the table from him, noting the war on her face she was trying desperately to supress. Flittering eyelashes, tensing muscles and the sheen of tears that disappeared when the pull of her upper lip revealed a sharp incisor and canine. Desperately, her eyes cut swathes over the table like knives as she tried to observe the others; they were all eating the meat and giving polite thanks to Telaendril – all except him. But those little amber daggers never stabbed in his direction, they resisted the magnetism and thus, the emotional war continued. 

It was maddening, not knowing where you stood amongst the mercurial, murderous marauders. Or, more precisely, where you stood with the Speaker of said group. Quenwe felt at ease with him, or she had, before she knew who, exactly, he was. It had been nearly 8 months since they’d first met and nearly 8 days since they’d met for a second time. Both times, they’d wound up in bed together. But they’d gone to bed as strangers, as equals, drawn together by some mutual attraction. And now, they were no longer strangers, and most definitely no longer equals. Why hadn’t the power imbalance altered the attraction, severed the charismatic chain that drew them into the magnetic orbit of the other? She fought with the fragments of herself; those that were bashful and wanted to run; those that wanted to portray confidence and make friends; and those rare few fragments that wanted to trust and be trusted, to love and be loved. Quenwe snapped her eyes halfway to her tormentor and watched the tendons in his hands move as he precisely cut off the most cooked parts of the steak. In the dead of night when he had run his hands over the curves of her body, she had revelled in the functional aspect but now, she had the chance to appreciate the aesthetic. The flickering candlelight illuminated all the silver scars bisecting the dorsal surface. They were blissfully clean, not even a smudge of dirt or blood remained, even under the neatly clipped nails. Or, at least, the left hand was clean, while the right was still lightly smeared with his own blood mixed with brandy. It was a relief to know she wasn’t the only one who wasn’t enamoured with the meat. Taking several deep breaths and steeling her nerves, Quenwe risked snapping her eyes the whole distance and saw him watching her, amusement twinkling in the depths of his umber eyes. 

For the past five minutes, at least, she’d been staring at his hands and part of him below the waist wondered if it was out of appreciation, and part of him above the waist wondered if it was out of hatred. When those amber orbs finally sought out his face, he was waiting. Reclining in his chair, Lucien was content to study the ever-increasing mystery that had been dropped into his Sanctuary. Fate had morphed her from a stranger in his bed for a night, to a weapon amongst his ranks for as long as they both lived. Lucien, however, couldn’t subscribe to the impersonality; the dichotomy between passionate and malevolent. His mind, his most powerful tool, struggled to rationalise what he wanted. Watching the pull of Quenwe’s lips, he knew she was fighting a similar battle, between interest and indifference. 

Part of her wanted to hate him, but she knew she had only herself to blame for every action that had led to the current situation. The smallest actions could create the largest reactions. Choosing to ignore her own philosophical musings, Quenwe quickly sliced through the sodden steak on her plate. She forced the mask grimly in place, attempting to school her features into neutrality. The portions were intentionally uneven and ensuring that Telaendril wasn’t observing her, she slipped her knife under the bigger portion. Gripping down on the knife, she placed her thumb on top of the meat and in one fluid movement, whipped her hand to the right, to Vicente’s plate, and deposited the flesh. Vicente, to her relief, didn’t flinch in the slightest and began slicing into the meat. Leaning back, she met Lucien’s eyes and placed her cutlery together on the plate. Amusement danced in the shadowed apexes of his face, from a raised eyebrow to the ever-infuriating smirk. With cool grace, Lucien leant over and refilled their glasses and they joined in a silent toast. 

After the meal was done, Quenwe bit back her scorn and tried to thank Telaendril for cooking, but her gratitude was met with a sneer before the Bosmer turned and stalked off. While she was trying to displace the glare from her face, a large hand clapped her on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about it, newbie, she’ll come ‘round soon.”  
“Hmm. If you say so. Anyway, enough of that. Thank you for dinner, Gogron. Those vegetables were divine.”  
“Don’t let Tel hear you say that, or she’ll hate you even more.” The Orc chuckled and moved off after the wood elf in question.   
Quenwe began clearing the table, desperate to feel useful. The remaining family members handed their cleared plates to her as she moved around the table. All except for Bellamont, whose chair was angled so that she had to lean across his lap to collect the plate. His was the last to collect and the weight of all the other china and cutlery was starting to mount. She’d just begun to lift his plate when he twisted, slightly, so as not to be overtly obvious above the table. But that was all it took. His knee slipped between her own and she jerked as if shocked. His touch took her back to the night when she’d started down this path, the night when Gregorius and Linus both flashed her the same leer that Bellamont did. In that instant, the chinaware didn’t matter; propriety be damned. All that mattered was escaping his nauseating touch. Cutlery and dishes began to fall to the floor, their increasing cacophony lost to Quenwe’s ears as rage and panic boiled inside her. Injured leg muscles protested against the rising tension as she lurched backwards. In a swift movement, Bellamont stood, far too close, and large hands came to rest on her hips, forcing her to remain in place. “Careful, Quenwe, you nearly fell right into my lap.” He was taller than her and his breathy voice rained down on her, rich with the scent of corruption. Before she could curse him to Oblivion, he had moved away. “Come, Antoinetta, why don’t we go out for a drink? It’s rather sloppy in here, presently.” With that, the Bretons swept out the room, leaving Quenwe to fume at the sherds and scraps. 

No amount of kneeling amongst the debris with a bowed head could hide the anger rolling of the Quenwe in waves. Teinaava moved to help her, collecting up the cutlery and nodding was all she could do to signal her thanks. Lucien didn’t move to help as he walked past, but he did stop briefly to whisper in her ear, “Don’t let them get under your skin, little one, you know that’s my job.” Thankfully, her face was too red from fury for anyone to notice the blush. 

As it turned out, cleaning with Teinaava was surprisingly soothing. He chattered as they worked, detailing the history and significance of Shadowscales in Argonian culture. The burning hate she felt for Bellamont slowly ebbed away as she began to focus on Teinaava’s narrative. For a while, the storm in her mind was calmed. 

Try as he might to focus, the parchments spread before him on Vicente’s desk became an ecru blur. “Lucien, are you even listening?” Vicente asked, for what could have been the umpteenth time.   
“Yes, Vicente, I am listening. Send Gogron to deal with the old solider near Bruma, he’ll be in his element.”   
The vampire didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he sighed and began rolling the parchments up. “Is there something on your mind, Lucien? I ask because we discussed Gogron’s contract 5 minutes ago.”  
Lucien snapped his dark eyes up, fighting to focus his attention, “If we already discussed it once, then why are we discussing it again?”  
“Apparently we are discussing it again because despite having asked you, twice, about M’Raaj Dar’s known spells and enquiring politely about our alchemical stores, you ignored me and continued to attempt to set the desk alight with your intense glare.” The glare was now focused on him but Vicente didn’t back down, instead he allowed himself a moment to bathe in the heat of Lucien’s eyes, even if he’d rather they were heated with a different emotion. “Either get it off your mind, Lucien, or take it elsewhere. I’d rather not spend my evening being forced to wallow in the mire of your enmity.”   
“Were you always such a wordsmith, Vicente? Or does all the blood sharpen the tongue?” Lucien leaned back, marvelling in his mentor’s ability to read him and lighten the mood.   
“Oh, I’ve always been this sharp, the years have only refined me. Now, are you staying or going?”  
As if in answer, Lucien leant back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. “Bellamont has been spending too much time here of late, and I fear it is only going to increase now,” he snapped his head forward suddenly and met Vicente’s gaze, “Do you agree?”  
“I would agree. I wonder, will you also be spending more time here?” Vicente leaned his elbows on the desk and rested his chin on one palm.   
“Would you like a complete schedule of my travel inventory, Vicente? I go where the Night Mother requires, you know as much.”  
“Since you’ve decided to stay, yet skirt the issue at hand, I’ll be forthright. What is the exact nature of your relationship with our newest member?” Vicente tried to tell himself he was asking in a professional capacity, not out of jealousy and curiosity.   
Lucien flashed him a positively feral grin before replying, “Why, my old friend, are you jealous?” The grin disappeared before he continued, “The relationship between Miss Luseph and I is one of business. I extend the same courtesy to her as I would any other Brother or Sister.”  
“I hadn’t realised the courtesy you extend to others was so amorous, Lucien. I must admit, I feel left out.” His eyes narrowed as he spoke, at odds with his light tone.  
Standing, Lucien placed both palms on the desk and spoke down to the vampire who had been his mentor since he was but a scrap of a boy. “My, my, my,” he drawled in a silken tone cloaked with a warning, “Jealousy doesn’t suit you, old friend.” He spun and stalked towards the door, annoyed that Vicente always saw far too much.   
“Bellamont deliberately tripped her tonight,” he began, unwilling to let Lucien leave on a sour note, “but he was gauging your reaction more than hers.”  
Lucien turned around and leaned against the door. “Why would he be gauging my reaction? Do you believe he is trying to make me jealous?”  
“Are you blind? Did you not see him tonight, leering between you and Quenwe? Did you not see the way he was all over her tonight, despite poor Antoinetta being but a few feet away?”  
“I’ll concede that our dear Antoinetta deserves much better, but it’s widely known the man has turned into a philanderer in recent months, ever since Maria disappeared. I’d assumed he was merely continuing in that vein, not foolishly trying to make me jealous.” He would never admit that Bellamont had made him jealous. His blood boiled every time he saw the man’s dark, lecherous eyes rake over Quenwe.   
“This has the potential to turn into quite the insipid little drama. Do you know why he was trying to raise your hackles? I’ll tell you my theory; the other week I was in the Bridge Inn, seeking out a warm fountain of refreshment, when I overheard Bellamont and Gogron, quite inebriated, having a not-so-discreet discussion about their respective ladies. Bellamont was apparently trying to drown his memory of the night before, when Antoinetta screamed _your_ name in bed, not his. Gogron, by the way, found it hilarious and called you, I quote, “Luscious Lucien”. Apparently Telaendril is quite enamoured of you too, but Gogron wasn’t jealous.”   
As Vicente recounted the incident, Lucien’s eyebrows crept steadily higher and it took him a moment to respond. “They’re both like daughters to me. I recruited and trained them; they’ve become family. In the highly probable likelihood that you were mistaken in your eavesdropping, they’re presumably mistaking gratitude for affection.” Once again, he sat before Vicente’s desk, needing to process the information.  
“You don’t have to explain anything to me, Luscious Lucien.” Vicente said with a laugh and rose to pour them both wine. There were many other questions begging to be asked, but Vicente was content to wait until Lucien came to him – for now. 

The intricate embroidery of the bed canopy faded as Quenwe snuffed the candle beside her out. She had changed into one of Raminus’ shirts, desperate for a tangible sense of comfort. His scent still clung to the cotton, the odd combination of parchment, mint and tea. More than ever, she wished she had never left. Tears fell freely without his ink-stained fingers to wipe them away and they ran down to mingle with the two studs in her lobe. The gemstone piercings had begun with Artius. He’d returned one evening with a black stone nestled in a silver filigree setting and told her it was a black diamond, but to her eyes it could’ve easily been onyx or obsidian. Instead of threading it onto a chain, she’d attached it to a hoop earring and proudly wore it everywhere while keeping her other ear plain. When she’d left him, she couldn’t bear the thought of throwing the gem away, even though she’d removed her wedding rings. So, she’d move it to her other ear, rationalising that it was just another part of her history, acknowledged and moved on from. It had been a curious impulse, but after things slowly progressed with Raminus, Quenwe went to Red Diamond Jewelry and commissioned a topaz stud. Finding a ruby pendant immediately after leaving Lucien in Leyawiin last week had been a completely random occurrence, but the gem had soon found a place on a ring in her ear. She’d pierced a new hole above that of the topaz stud and the pain of it had done nothing to assuage the guilt. It still stung, what she’d done to Raminus; how she’d entwined herself in the sheets with Lucien while he was likely alone in the bed they’d shared for months. Sitting up, she waved a hand at the candle and the flickering wick reignited to dance beside the forgotten glass of brandy she’d brought with her earlier. Quickly, before she lost her nerve, Quenwe removed the topaz earring and held it in the flame. With her free hand, she submerged her thumb and forefinger into the alcohol and rubbed the liquid above the dark stone on her right lobe. An infection would be another needless hassle and her restoration skills were lacklustre, at best. Pulling the lobe taught, she pushed the scalding stud through the skin, past the resistance and sting. Concentrating, she tried to heal the rawness of the wound. Downing the last of the brandy, Quenwe curled into the foreign linens and focused on the warmth of the nightcap spreading through her limbs.

No sooner had the Sandman visited Quenwe than the blessing was wrenched away. Sounds strayed in from elsewhere in the chamber, the curtains on the canopied-bed doing nothing to keep them at bay. Shrill moans that increased in crescendo and tempo reminded Quenwe of nothing but the stray bitches on heat that roamed the Waterfront District. A pillow smothered over her head proved to be a futile shield. With a huff, she swung out of bed and pulled on her cable-knit socks, intent on finding a more peaceful cranny in the Sanctuary to sleep. Dragging the blanket folded on the end of the bed with her, Quenwe made no effort to hide her departure. Unfortunately, it appeared the Breton couple in the room either had no qualms about privacy or revelled in the absence of it. The curtains on their bed hung tied to the sides, rendering the writhing flesh within them quite visible to all who passed by. Antoinetta was on her hands and knees, rivulets of sweat swept down her pale skin and glowed in the candlelight. Quenwe had faltered in her step when the scene registered in her mind, which occurred at exactly the same moment as Bellamont’s head idly swung around to regard her. His dark eyes were unfathomable pools but the licentious grin that stretched his thin lips was purely for her. Part of her acknowledged that the pale planes of his body weren’t unattractive, but another part reviled the salacity. Giving him a glacial stare, Quenwe stormed by and slammed the door as she left. The nightcap, combined with the two drinks at dinner, no longer raged through her bloodstream but instead, had slowed to a melancholic simmer. It wouldn’t do to leave the Sanctuary on her first night, even if it were solely to find a soft bed. No wanting to impose or inconvenience, she made her way deeper into the Sanctuary, where the red incandescence surrounding the Night Mother’s shrine beckoned. It was said that the Night Mother loved all her children and as Quenwe returned to sleep at the foot of the statue, she concluded that it was than could be said of the biological mother she never knew.

Even sequestered away in Vicente’s room, they had both heard the resounding of a slamming door throughout the Sanctuary. It hadn’t taken long to discover the trigger of the commotion as Antoinetta made her climax known to the world. Both men easily guessed who had slammed the door and parted ways to find their newest Sister. Vicente had not actually parted from Lucien to search for Quenwe but had waited a moment before silently following the Speaker. He came across them in the rubicund depths, two harbingers resembling their macabre philosophy. 

Lucien furthered blanketed the small sleeping form and was powerless to resist the temptation of her electrum curls. He lingered as he tucked a strand behind a delicate ear, lost in the abyss of his thoughts. As he did so, he noticed the large teardrop ruby hanging from a silver sleeper in her lobe. Did Quenwe always change jewellery in the evening or was there some significance here? Glancing up at the marble likeness of the Night Mother, Lucien almost believed a warmth washed over him and a smile graced her stone lips. With a sigh, he rubbed his temples, trying to alleviate the tension. At this moment, he acutely regretted spending the night with Quenwe in Leyawiin. The encounter had further blurred the line between professional and personal. Or perhaps the problem was that he wanted more, but he couldn’t rationalise why? Never in the past had he been one to pursue a relationship. “Mother, help me,” he whispered, before standing and wrenching himself away before he spent the night on the floor beside the unwitting source of his vexation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! Apologies that it has been so long since I've posted. I haven't abandoned this story but I have been absolutely swamped with work and finding the energy to survive has been a struggle.   
> There was more I wanted to add to this chapter, but it kind of grew and grew and got out of hand. So, sorry there isn't much action but a whole lot of waffle! But I wanted to post something since it had been so long. Hopefully there aren't too many errors, since I'm lazy when it comes to proofreading.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! This is my first attempt at writing anything fictional in a long time, so apologies if it's too rigid and report-y. Additional tags and perhaps even a rating change may follow. Please, if you have any criticisms, feedback or general commentary, feel free to share them! I'm quite unsure of this fic and any encouragement would be great. I hope to update every week or so (fingers crossed). 
> 
> I'm new to HTML editing, so hopefully the formatting is okay.
> 
> The incorporated environmental/geographical/faunal elements are as observed from playing TESIII, TESIV and ESO.


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